On the Rooftops of London
by Monker
Summary: Before he was ever a POW, Newkirk was a small time crook in London. A chance meeting leads Newkirk to someone he'll never forget. Years later, when he receives an unexpected letter, will his past with her be too painful to remember? Winner of 3 PBAs 2011!
1. Remember

**Title: **On the Rooftops of London

**Author:** Monker

**Genre:** Romance/General/Crime…I also like to think that it's got a bit of humor and drama in it as well, though.

**Pairing:** Peter Newkirk and an Original Character.

**Rating:** T (PG13) for mild violence and mention of abuse.

**Summary:** Long before he was ever a POW, Peter Newkirk was just a small time crook on the streets of London. A chance meeting during one of his magic shows leads Newkirk to someone he'll never be able to forget. But years later, when he receives an unexpected letter, will his past with her be too painful to remember? This is a Newkirk origin story. Save the first few chapters, most of the story takes place in a flashback to when Newkirk was back in London before the war. So sadly, Hogan and the other heroes are not in the story for long. This one's all about Newkirk and how he came to be the Peter Newkirk we see in the show. I hope you enjoy it!

**Disclaimer:** Hogan's Heroes and all of its characters and situations do not belong to me at this time. This is a work of fiction and is not posted for any financial gain, only for my enjoyment and the enjoyment of my fellow fans. However, the characters and places that are not cannon to the show are of my own imagination and belong to me.

**Special Thanks to: **My beloved cousin and friend for proof reading and continual encouragement; my dear friend Meagan who offered wonderful constructive and creative feedback on this story; Philip, for helping me brain storm ideas for one of the most pivotal chapters in the story; and Ashley, who was always willing to help me in my desperate hunts for the perfect word of phrase to use.

**Author's Note:** The little idea nugget that eventually blossomed into this story was basically inspired by the poem below. However, various scenes throughout the story were also inspired by specific lines from the show. I will try to point out whenever an idea for a scene was gained from the show. I'll include little author's notes at the end of the chapters to tell you which ones I used. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this story (which I will be updating regularly) and I would love it if you felt inclined to review!

**Papa Bear Awards: **I was very touched to learn that this story won awards in three categories for the 2011 Papa Bear Awards. The awards were for...

**Best Long Drama (Gold)**

**Best Portrayal of a Canon Character for Newkirk (Silver)**

and **Best Original Character for Stephanie Chambers (Gold)**

Thank you so much to everyone who voted. Considering that it took me over a year to complete this story, I was sincerely hoping that it would be well received by you wonderful readers. But to be honored by these awards totally exceeded all of my highest expectations. Thank you all for your wonderful support of this story. I am so thrilled that you enjoy it! Now without further delay, on to the story!

Okay…deep breath in…deep breath out…here we go!

* * *

Chapter One: Remember

_Remember me when I am gone away,_

_Gone far away into the silent land;_

_When you can no more hold me by the hand,_

_Nor I half turn to go, yet turning stay._

_Remember me when no more day by day,_

_You tell me of our future that you planned:_

_Only remember me; you understand_

_It will be late to counsel then or pray._

_Yet if you should forget me for a while_

_And afterwards remember, do not grieve:_

_For if the darkness and corruption leave_

_A vestige of the thoughts that I once had,_

_Better by far you should forget and smile_

_Than that you should remember and be sad._

_- Christina Rossetti, "Remember"_

Germany – Luftstalag 13 – September 29, 1942

Hogan was drawn out of his cat nap by a light, but determined, tapping at his wooden window shutter. He breathed in deeply, the air carrying consciousness to his senses, and blinked hard a few times. He was awake.

He had opted to sleep on the lower bunk this evening instead of the top. As much as he hated to admit it, Colonel Robert E. Hogan, wonder boy, was getting "up there" in years (or so it seemed to him). His old football knee had been giving him grief the past few days, and the bunk closest to the ground had been behaving friendlier to him than its higher counterpart. Hogan rose from the bunk and headed over to his window, running his fingers through his hair to comb it back into place. He grabbed a nearby, relatively thick book with the intention of using it as a weapon to silence whatever misguided bird was making that incessant tapping. Hogan flung open the shutter, and froze.

"Schultz?" He said, lowering the book that was ready to strike.

The oversized Sergeant peered at him from the outside. A timid smile crept on the German's face, but he had an unmistakable expression of trepidation pasted there also. "Hallo, Colonel Hogan," he said.

"Schultz, _what_ do you think you're doing?" his words were stern, but not harsh. Mostly Hogan was just cranky and he lacked the patience right now to deal with the Sergeant whose light bulb was very dim indeed.

"Colonel Hogan, the mail has just arrived for the prisoners."

Hogan crossed his arms, book still in hand, "And you thought you would pass the letters in through the window, just to break up routine."

Schultz chuckled, "That's very funny Colonel, but no. I was thinking…"

'_I'm impressed,'_ the American thought, still cranky.

The older man continued, "Maybe _you_ could hand out the letters to the men."

"Me? What's the matter with _you_ doing it?"

"Colonel Hogan, please. The men respect you. You are their leader. They will not trample_ you_."

Hogan breathed in a long, realizing breath and gave one knowing nod. The men had a tendency of getting a bit rambunctious when letters from home arrived. Despite his superior size, even Schultz didn't stand a chance against them. Hogan smirked and reached out with his free hand. "Okay Schultz," he said, "I'll hand out the letters."

"Oh danke, Colonel Hogan! Dan-ke! You've saved my life!" the grateful Sergeant exclaimed as he handed the letters to Hogan.

Shutting the window and turning back to face his room, Hogan shuffled through the letters to find his name. He smiled as he pulled out one from his parents back home. It had been a long time since he had heard from them. He tossed the letter to his bunk with a slight spin, planning to come back and read it later. Then, seeing there were no additional letters for him, Hogan headed out of his room to deliver the rest to his men.

* * *

In the main room of Barracks Two, the POWs were exhausting their efforts in the fight against boredom. Louis LeBeau, the French Corporal and barracks chef, was wracking his brain to try to find a substitute for the required rooster to cook coq au vin. The man's palate had been craving that particular dish for weeks now and he just _had_ to find the ingredients for it! James Kinchloe, the black American Sergeant and Radioman, was lying on his bunk, whistling a tune he had heard a number of years ago and trying with all his might to recall the title. Sergeant Andrew Carter, the small-town American and resident explosives expert, sat at the large eating table in the center of the room. He was experimenting with different designs for paper airplanes. So far, he had discovered two really great models and was working on the third, wondering how many times he could fold this one sheet of paper before it started to lose shape. And the local Renaissance man (i.e. pick-pocket, safe cracker, magician, forger, and tailor), RAF Corporal Peter Newkirk, lay stretched out on his upper bunk. He had one hand underneath his head, and with the other, he scraped imaginary pictures into the wall at his side. Other men in the barracks were spread around doing similar things. Needless to say, they were all quite bored.

Carter was the one who spoke up first, interrupting Kinch's song. "Hey, guys?" he said, peering thoughtfully around the room, paper airplane forgotten on the table top. "How many trees do you suppose it took to build this place?"

LeBeau, from his place near the stove, asked, "The whole camp, or just the barracks?"

"Just the barracks. But everything in it too, like the table and bunks and stuff. How many?"

Newkirk rolled on his side to answer the Sergeant, only half believing himself that he was bored enough to address this stupid question. "Well, that depends on the size of the tree, don't it?"

Carter considered this for a moment, then he stood up and said, "Okay, say it's about this big." He held out his arms in front of him and clasped his hands together, looking for all the world like a human basketball hoop.

Newkirk shrugged, "I don't know. Twelve?"

"Well, let's think about it," Kinch said, rising from his bunk and walking over to Carter. As he approached the other Sergeant, Kinch crossed his arms and studied the dimensions of Carter's invisible tree. "You could maybe get, I don't know, five or six planks out of a tree that thick."

"Make it five," LeBeau said, "It's easier to calculate."

"Okay, five"

"Now wait a minute," Newkirk jumped in, "'ow tall is this tree? Because it could be somethin' more like ten planks."

"Good point," said Kinch, turning back to his bunk and retrieving a note pad and pencil. "So we'll figure ten planks per tree. Now how many planks have we got outside from floor to ceiling?"

"Thirteen," said Carter.

LeBeau agreed, "Oui, I've counted those lots of time. It's thirteen."

So thus the game began. Thirteen boards in each section from floor to ceiling. They sent Carter outside to count how many individual sections there were outside. He discovered fifteen sections made up each long side of the outer barracks' walls, and then an additional four sections for each short side. They worked it out to find that the outside of their barracks consisted of seven hundred and eighty planks.

"Don't forget the doors and windows," LeBeau advised, and they factored in two more planks for each window and four for the front door. That came out to seven hundred and ninety six planks.

"Now divide by ten…" Kinch scribbled away at his notepad. The other men gathered close to the radioman to peer over his shoulder, even Newkirk stretched his neck on the top bunk to see what Kinch was figuring. "It comes out to seventy nine point six trees to make up the outside alone." An exclamatory whistle sounded from someone on the far side of the room.

"Seventy nine point six!" LeBeau hollered in surprise.

"Sure, and that's not even counting the roof," Carter said.

LeBeau turned and looked up at Newkirk, "And you said twelve!" the Frenchman laughed.

Newkirk tried to defend himself, "It was a shot in the dark! I didn't figure we'd work the bloody thing out!"

But the short Corporal continued to laugh.

Newkirk sighed as he laid back down on his bunk, mumbling, "Oh leave off, LeBeau. I hate numbers."

"Well, how do you feel about letters, Newkirk?" Hogan's voice, coming from the entrance to his private room, caught them all off guard. When everyone turned to look at him, they saw that in his hand he held a dozen or so beautiful letters. Hogan, with a gleam in his eye, fanned the envelopes wide with on hand and patted them lightly on his chest, like he was showing off a royal flush.

"Mail!" the men shouted as they ran quickly over to the Colonel.

Hogan didn't even flinch as his men neared; he just stood there and waited for them to calm down long enough for him to pass out the letters. Just as he suspected, they each straightened as they reached him, and stood semi patiently around him. Hogan eyed them with an amused smirk, and then purposely took his time with his duties. He would look down at the name on the envelope, but wouldn't call it out. Instead, he would look back up at the waiting men and search through the crowd until he saw the lucky man. Then, handing the letter to the Private, he would say, "One for Brotten." This went on through the whole alphabet. It was painfully slow, but Hogan's nap was interrupted for this, so he was going to get as much amusement out of it as he could.

Newkirk waited with a moderately calm demeanor. When Hogan had revealed the mail, most of the men were already on the ground. Having to jump from his bunk before heading over to the Colonel landed Newkirk near the very back of the crowd. But as letters were handed out, the number of men standing around dwindled until it was just Saunders, Mills, O'Brien, and Newkirk. Mills got two letters (lucky devil), and then finally…

"One for Newkirk."

The Englishman reached forward and grabbed the letter. He looked down at the return address as he walked back to his bunk. It was from his sister Mavis in Stepney. '_Good ol' Mavis,'_ Newkirk thought. '_She always knows how to pop in when things get boring.'_ He took a moment to leap up to his bed before opening the letter. Inside, Newkirk was surprised to find a second, smaller envelope. It was a light shade of brown, different from the color Mavis typically used, and had inscribed on its front simply, "Peter Newkirk". It had no address and no return address, simply his name; and it was written in script Newkirk didn't recognize. Newkirk examined the small brown envelope for a moment, frowning his brow and pursing his lips slightly in puzzlement. Then he looked once again into Mavis's envelope, the larger one with the more yellow tone. Inside he found a letter in the handwriting he recognized as his sisters'.

_Dear Peter,_

_I apologize for taking so long to write to you. You wouldn't believe how busy I've been the last few weeks!_

Newkirk chuckled slightly to himself. At least _she_ could find things to do! But then that was Mavis, she always kept busy. Even when they were kids, he would be happy to just relax all day, but not Mavis. No, she would need something to do. Especially when mum and dad would get at it. Peter would drown out the yelling and crying by camping out in his room, teaching himself new magic tricks; and Mavis would just set to work, scrubbing or sweeping anything in reach. They both got really good at drowning those noises out when they were little. Then, when Peter turned about fifteen, he had had enough of those noises and confronted his father about them. '_A right good that brought about!' _Newkirk thought sardonically. The bitterness was still palpable, but Newkirk suppressed it, as he always did, and just kept reading.

It was simple, everyday things Mavis described: work, friends, a shortage they had on petrol and what that meant for the people of the town. It was all trivial, but Newkirk didn't care. He missed those trivial things. In some ways, those simple everyday pleasures were what he was fighting for. But then, near the end of the letter, things got interesting.

_Peter, the strangest thing happened the other day. You know how you've had you mail forwarded to me while you've been away? Well a letter arrived for you the other day and it looked really official. When I opened it, it was a letter from a solicitor._

Newkirk frowned, _'An attorney? That can't be good,'_ he thought and read quickly on.

_It requested your presence for the reading of a will. _

Newkirk was taken aback. A will? Someone died? His heart skipped a beat. His mind ran in circles as he tried to predict who it could possibly be. He could think of a number of people he thought might be old enough, mostly just school masters and employers. But none of them would leave anything to him in their will! Peter was confused, but still he read on.

_I rang the number on the page and explained to the solicitor who I was and why you obviously couldn't make the reading. After a bit of a discussion, they decided I could sit in for you. Peter, you wouldn't even be able to imagine how awkward it was for me to sit in that room with all those grieving people. And I had no idea who this person even was! And by the looks of the other people in the room, I'm pretty sure they didn't recognize me. No one would even speak to me, only a few even looked at me! Half of me wondered if they got the name wrong or something because I know most of your friends, and I didn't recognize any of those people. But I waited for your section to be read. I was surprised that you were so early in the will. All they left you was this little envelope you see I've included in this letter. I don't know what it means, but I'm assuming that you will. Like I said, I don't know who this person was, but apparently you were pretty close. I'm sorry brother. I wish I knew how to help you, but I don't. But please, tell me. Who was she?_

Newkirk skimmed the final goodbyes and turned quickly to the light brown envelope. He swiftly removed the small letter from its sheath, ignoring the fact that the envelope still felt heavy like there was something else at the bottom. Skipping the actual letter, his eyes jumped down to the signature at the bottom of the page.

_Unregretful,_

_Stephanie_

* * *

**Author's Note:** In case you were wondering about my math at the beginning of this chapter, I swear it is accurate. I got out my DVDs and paused it on a view of the barracks and counted the number of planks and sections of the hut. It was great fun. So in case you ever wondered how many planks make up Barracks Two…now you have a rough idea.

**Cannon inspiration for this chapter:** The scene where Schultz delivers the mail in "Request Permission to Escape".

**And:** I can't think of the actual episode, but I am told that Newkirk's sister, Mavis, is cannon and that she lives in Stepney. It is said to have been mentioned whenever the Germans were told to be bombing England. Newkirk evidently said something like, "Blimey, I hope my sister Mavis in Stepney is all right."I don't remember seeing the episode in which this information is mentioned. But I trust the word of those who have told me that it's cannon. So if anyone can think of the actual episode title, please let me know.


	2. The Letter

Chapter Two: The Letter

Newkirk's breath caught audibly as he stared at the page. Every nerve in his body numbed and he sat completely still. Stephanie was dead? How? Why? She was just a girl. A young, sweet…_innocent_ thing. Newkirk thought about how long it had been since he'd seen her. This coming November would make it nine years since that day in the garden. So she must have been about twenty eight or twenty nine by now. Newkirk sighed and closed his eyes. Twenty eight. She was not elderly, by any means. How could she possibly die so young?

Newkirk stared down at the light brown letter, but did not begin to read. He first examined the hand writing. He recognized it now. It was from Stephanie all right. Newkirk watched as his hand began to quiver and tremors shot through the paper, causing a soft rustling sound as the page scraped against the envelope behind it. With his other hand, Newkirk roughly clutched his wrist, forcing himself to be still. He was getting worked up, and it wouldn't do at all to get emotional in a room full of men. They would start asking questions out of concern and all _that_ sort of rubbish, wanting to know what was bothering him. The last thing he needed right now was to be crowded by a bunch of blokes all trying to show their sensitive sides. No, what Newkirk needed right now was fresh air. He needed comfortable solitude. He needed freedom.

Newkirk packed up the letters and tucked them away in his inner breast pocket. Jumping down from his bunk, no one asked where he was going as the Englishman headed out of the barracks. Outside, Newkirk glanced around the compound and headed in the direction of the least amount of people. As his body walked, Newkirk's mind ran.

It didn't make sense. How could she die? This age should be the prime of her life, not the end of it! Maybe she had some freak accident or something. But what a terrible thought. Certainly no one could have hurt her on purpose. She didn't have an enemy in the world! How could she? Everyone loved her. She was a sweet and charming young woman. Who could hurt someone so kind?

Oh Stephanie, what a beautiful creature she was! Her hairs were delicate strands of gold and her eyes were swirls of chocolate brown. Newkirk's own eyes remembered vividly being rapt in those chocolates on more than one occasion. Yes, he had fallen for her; fallen long and hard. But he didn't mind the plummet. No, the falling itself was blissful. It was only the landing that hurt. But in the end, it was merely pain, not destruction which the landing inflicted. He had been immobilized for a while; but eventually, Peter was able to pick himself up, and move on. And after nine years of moving on, Stephanie had caught up; and that woman was once again forced into the forefront of Peter Newkirk's mind.

Turning a corner, Newkirk found a bench along the back wall of one of the outer rim barracks. He could only see four guards and they were quite a ways off. As he moved to the bench, Newkirk knew those guards were watching him, wary of any dash for the wires the Englander might choose to make. But Newkirk also knew that this was as private a place he could manage in a POW camp, so he took a seat and retrieved the burden from his pocket. Unfolding the letter, he stared at it blankly for a short while before allowing his eyes to focus and read across the page.

_Dear Peter,_

_I know you must be surprised to be reading this letter. Frankly, I'm not too keen on writing it either. But if you are reading this, it means I'm dead. I know it probably comes as a shock to you, but as I write this, I've been expecting it to happen for quite some time. You wouldn't know this, because you and I never discussed it during our time together, but I was always very sick as a child. Mum and Dad always got me the best doctors and arranged for me to stay at home instead of a hospital room, so I still had a fairly normal childhood. I started to get better as I grew and by the time I met you, I had been healthy for nearly nine full years. That's why I never mentioned it to you; I thought I had passed it. But now I don't think so. Anyway, it doesn't look like I'll be sure to beat it this time. So I'm writing you this letter because you and I both know that when I left you there in that garden, there were many things left unsaid on both fronts. Well for my part, I'm sick of not saying them. So here it is…_

_I loved you, Peter. Never, ever be convinced I didn't! I never listened to those things other people said about you. I didn't care __what__ you were, or what you did. All I knew was __who__ you were, and there was nothing shameful to be seen there. You were real, you were genuine. You didn't treat me differently when you learned who I was. I get so sick of people putting a filter on everything they say or do around me because they know who my parents are! But you, Peter, never used that filter with me. I knew the man you really were, and I fell in love with him. I never would have left you if it had been up to me. I know you've never believed it, but I swear it's true that the choice was never my own. I had to leave. I wanted to stay, but it just wasn't realistic. Maybe you could make it on your own, Peter, but I couldn't. I needed my family with me. So that is why I left. I wasn't running from you, or the papers, or any of it. I was simply following. I pray that you will be able to believe me someday. I really did love you._

_As for those lies, I never believed them. I pray you never let those fools get under your skin. You are a good man, Peter, a noble man even. Sometimes these days in England, I think that we've used the word "noble" too freely, and hence lost sight of its meaning. But your heart, Peter, is noble in its truest sense. You are smarter and deeper, and your heart is truer than many (if not most) of the people our nation today calls "noblemen". I was honoured to know you as intimately as I did. If only the rest of the world could have a chance to know you half as well. _

_I don't even know if you still care, but if you do Peter, please don't mourn too severely over me. I am not even sure how much grief I've caused you already through the years, but it would break me to cause any more to you. So if remembering me makes you sad, I pray you forget me quickly. Because I'd hate to see those beautiful eyes cry on account of me. _

_While I'm thinking of it, I will include along with this letter a necklace of mine. I found it two weeks after you and I were separated. My heart stopped when I saw it in the __jewe__lle__ry__ store because this little necklace was the exact colour I remember your eyes being. I wore it and thought of you even after we were apart. So keep it now, Peter. I couldn't bear the thought of someone else wearing it._

_I suppose that's all I will say, this page is losing room quickly. Now, I have to say goodbye. I love you Peter and will never forget the wonderful time we had together. _

_Unregretful,_

_Stephanie_

Newkirk read through the letter two more times. He tried to process that she was really gone, but somehow…it just didn't seem real. She was sick? How could he have missed that? He tried to remember any time they were together and she showed signs of illness. The only thing he could really recall was that she was never very physically active. Once, he tried to run with her but she wouldn't do it. She said it made her too tired. Was that because of all those years being sick as a child? Why didn't she tell him? Newkirk sighed. She thought she had beaten it. But what kind of sickness comes back over nine years later? He didn't know. Once again, Newkirk's eye returned to the page.

_I never would have left you if it had been up to me. I know you've never believed it, but I swear it's true that the choice was never my own._

She was right; part of him would _never_ believe that. And another, much smaller part knew that she couldn't have stayed with him. He found himself repeating her written words, _'it just wasn't realistic'_.

Suddenly remembering something, Newkirk reached back into the envelope. He stretched and closed his fingers inside the pouch, the object within snaking around his movements, until he grasped a secure hold on the thing and pulled it to daylight. He took a brief moment to untangle its length (no doubt distorted by the excessive passing from one hand to the next on its journey to Deutschland). Finally, Newkirk examined the necklace.

He wasn't sure if it really resembled his eyes. But then again, it's not as though the British prisoner made a habit of staring eye to eye with himself. It was a single peridot stone fixed on an oval pendant of silver, which hung vertically on a matching silver chain. The chain itself was braided to look like heavy rope and reached a length of about ten inches or so. It was a simple piece of jewelry, but that was not surprising. After all, Stephanie always had a taste for accessories that were less extravagant than what might be anticipated. But something told him that she wore it for the memory, not the fashion. As he ran his thumb over the smooth surface of the peridot, Newkirk tried to imagine the necklace hanging from Stephanie's neck; her lovely, pale neck, with the birthmark just below the hairline behind her left ear.

"You there!"

Newkirk looked up. He was perturbed, but not surprised, by the interruption.

"What is it you are doing?" the guard asked curtly, his thick German accent sending the W vibrating off of his lips.

"Just thinkin', mate," Newkirk stated quietly.

Still suspicious, but not quite sure of what, the guard persisted, "Thinking of what?"

"Well it's got nothin' to do with dodgin' over those wires if that's what you're after!"

The guard looked over at the wires and then back at Newkirk. It seemed the Corporal's irritated joked only helped to make the guard even more paranoid. Judging by his young age and the nervous way he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, Newkirk guessed that the blond guard was very new to this sort of thing. This was probably the first time the kid had even spoken to one of the prisoners! With darting eyes and a nervous gulp, it was obvious that he was much more at home in the elevated guard tower in the distance than standing here, a few paces away from this suspicious enemy soldier.

Newkirk rolled his eyes, "I'm reading a letter from 'ome."

The guard squinted slightly and tilted his head to the side. He had not understood the Englishman. "What?" he asked with confusion.

Newkirk leaned forward slightly, causing the old wooden bench to creak beneath his weight. "I'm _reading_ a_ letter_ from _home_!" he spoke patronizingly slow and stressed each T and H sound his Cockney accent usually neglected. _'Superior race indeed!' _Newkirk thought, _'They can't even understand English the first time round!'_

The guard wetted his lips as he nodded, "Well…finish reading and then go. You cannot be this close to the wire for long."

Newkirk gestured to the fence, "I'm twenty yards away from the bloody thing!"

To his credit, the young guard did manage to broaden his shoulders and puff out his chest a bit as he said, in his most authoritative voice, "You cannot stay long!" Then he turned swiftly and retreated to his post.

Newkirk sighed and once again looked down at his letter. As the German guard went back to the tower, the English prisoner seemed to go back even further…to a time nine years ago, and a place three hundred miles to the west.

* * *

There you are. I hope you enjoyed this chapter. The next one should be up soon. Please feel free to review.


	3. At the Pub

Chapter Three: At the Pub

London, England – Mid September, 1934

It was a usual gig. He was playing a simple show in one of the many crummy pubs in London's east end. The establishment itself had a rather mundane layout. There was a stage to the back wall, bar to the right of the entrance, and tables filling up the middle floor space. It was a very poorly lit room. Light fixtures hung low enough above each table to make the common-heighted man conscious of potential bruises to the forehead. If the dim lighting did not make visibility difficult enough, all of the smoke certainly did. There were enough cigarettes burning in that room to create the pub's own little in-door cloud covering. The pub was occupied by the sort of customers one might expect. There was the drunkard, who made common appearances at the pub throughout the week, throwing every paycheck into another mug of the brewery's cheapest, most mediocre liquor. There was the mourner, brooding alone at the bar, throwing down his throat shot glass after shot glass of whatever would make him forget the soonest. There was the Romeo, hoping the nice wine glasses and charming smile would impress the reluctant Juliet who sat opposite him. Then, there was the mysterious shadow warmer, who sat secluded near the edge of the room, observing much, but offering little interaction. And it was to this crowd that magician Peter Newkirk was trying to appeal.

He could tell he was losing his audience. They didn't seem to be interested in simple disappearing acts or card tricks, or even when he made that gentleman's name appear on his arm after rubbing cigar ash on it. If Newkirk wanted to win back this audience before his forty-five minutes were up, he needed to do something to regain their attention, and he had to be prompt about it. He excused himself from the stage for the briefest of moments while he dodged backstage to grab some supplies. When he emerged from the curtain, he started setting up for his most daring stunt.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, for my final act, I shall need an assistant from the audience," he projected towards the crowd.

A fat man sitting at one of the closest tables cackled, "What's the matter hot-shot? Not _renowned_ enough to have a personal assistant of your own? I wonder why _that_ could be!"

Newkirk tried not to let the heckler bother him, "As a matter of fact sir, I prefer it this way. It leaves room for more audience participation."

He continued to prepare the table for his final act. He had six wooden saucers. All of the saucers were alike except one which had a four-inch spike jutting out of its center. He put the six saucers in a line on the table and then placed small paper cones atop each one, concealing the spike on the sixth saucer. Once he had thus set the table, Newkirk repeated, "Who would be willing to volunteer to help me in this dangerous stunt?"

His eyes scanned the room; most people were not paying very much attention to what was happening on stage. Newkirk accredited that to the outstanding quantities of alcohol consumed by the majority of his audience (and he felt that the lack of enthusiasm from the people was in no way linked to his performance on stage, of course). Then, over by the entrance, Newkirk spied her. She was about five foot four inches tall. She was wearing a nice pale blue dress and had a simple yellow ribbon to pull back her simple yellow hair. She was quite lovely and frankly, Newkirk was surprised to see someone so prim in such a dump as that. Even more astounding to Newkirk was the fact that she was holding her hand in the air, volunteering to assist him. But he was far from complaining.

"Yes, you in the back, thank you for volunteering!"

As she made her way to the front of the room, she turned a number of heads as she passed table after table of men. _'Well, that was good for waking up some of those blokes already,'_ Newkirk thought to himself. When she reached the stage, Newkirk greeted her with a pleasant smile and took her by the hand.

"Pleased to have you, miss," he said as he helped her ascend the steps.

"Thank you," she said with a slightly anxious smile, "what exactly shall I do now?"

"Don't worry, love. I'll walk you through it."

Then, after blindfolding himself, Newkirk instructed his assistant to juggle the positions of the saucers back and forth. "Move the second one to the fourth position and the first one to the second position and the fourth to the third and the third to the first." It wasn't long before the girl lost track and started mixing things up.

The audience must have been perking up a bit too because Newkirk heard one of them correct her as she went to make a move, "No, that's not the second one, remember? You moved it to the sixth position two moves ago."

The audience really got interested when Newkirk started to interrupt the girl. He told her to guide his hand over whatever saucer was in the third position. She did as he ordered and then gasped in fear as Newkirk slammed his hand down on the saucer, flattening the paper cone. He instructed her to mix them up some more and then he soon slammed his hand down on another saucer, this time the one in the sixth position. The process repeated over and over again.

By the time it got down to three saucers, everyone in the room was awake and attentive, and not a soul could remember which saucer had the spike in it. And every time Newkirk's hand would come slamming down on that table, everyone would bite their lips, hoping that the magician would not impale his hand on that hidden spike.

At last, it got down to the final two saucers. Newkirk held his hand over one of them, prepared to strike. Then, he paused. "Uhh…you still there, lovie?" he asked, his voice feigning nervous fear.

"Yes, I'm here," she replied.

He cleared his throat, "Right, well…maybe you should, uh, swap 'em both one more time. Would you please?"

She looked nervous as she glanced out at the crowd. But she didn't hesitate too long. Soon, the saucers were reversed and she placed the new one right beneath Newkirk's hovering hand. When she told him that she had done what he'd asked, Newkirk paused just a moment longer, for dramatic effect, and then forcefully slammed his hand on the table, flattening the final cone to complete the trick.

The audience, fully awake now, cheered as Newkirk removed his blindfold and uncovered the final saucer. Sure enough, he showed that the spike was still there, and then he planted it into the surface of the table with one solid stab, just for emphasis. He turned and looked at his assistant. She appeared amazed and relieved all in one expression as she clapped her hands together with vigor. Newkirk laughed and flashed her a grateful smile.

With that, Newkirk's act was over and he left the stage to the sound of applause. As the next act took the stage and prepared to play a few tunes, Newkirk headed over to the bar to reward himself with a victory drink. He didn't get far before he heard, "That was very impressive."

He turned around, though he could already guess who it was, "Ahh, me faithful assistant. Why thank you. It's always good to hear that me act was enjoyable. And I really couldn't have done it without you, love. If you 'adn't been movin' those plates in the right order and to the right places, we could 'ave been in a fair mess!"

She scoffed and hiked her shoulders, "To be honest, I don't know that I _did_ keep them all in the right order most of the time. I seemed to get confused and lost track of things quite a number of times."

"Then I've got another someone to thank tonight in me prayers," Newkirk laughed.

She eyed him curiously as she asked, "But you _did_ know where the spike was, didn't you? I mean, you knew where it was the whole time, _right_?"

He grinned, "Sorry love, a magician never reveals 'is secrets."

Her expression changed slightly and she eyed him again in a different way, "Oh I see, is that in some kind of handbook, then?"

Newkirk nodded, "'The magician's handbook'. That's a pretty principle rule, really. You can't get by muckin' about with that one."

"Uhhu…" Her eyes trailed to the bar behind him and it gave her an idea. Turning her attention back to the man, she asked, "So, what does that handbook say about letting magicians accept a drink from one of their temporary assistants?"

Newkirk cocked an eyebrow, _'Well, this is a nice surprise!'_ But he didn't let his shock be too evident before he shook his head and replied, "Oh that's strictly off limits." He noted, with a certain degree of pleasure, how her face dropped at hearing that. "However," he said, taking a step towards her, "it says nothin' against _me_ buyin' _you_ one." He smiled at her and she returned it as Newkirk gestured for her to accompany him to the bar.

He pulled the stool out for her, kicking some peanut shells out of the way so she would have a place to put her feet. Once they were both situated, and Newkirk had placed an order for the drinks, he looked at his new companion. "The name's Newkirk, by the way. Or Peter if you'd prefer it."

"Peter, I'm delighted to meet you. I'm Stephanie," her brown eyes seemed to twinkle, and Peter noted, not for the last time, how they resembled swirls of chocolate mixing in a bowl.

He was so fixed on that revelry that it took him a moment to respond. "Well, Stephanie," he said, clearing his throat. "At the risk of stereotypin' meself-"

"You want to know what a nice girl like me is doing in a place like this?" she interrupted.

The bartender came with there drinks and Peter noticed how she gave the big man a polite smile and a genuine, "Thank you," before he went back to his work.

"You have to admit, you do stand out quite a bit in a crowd like this," Peter continued, raising his glass to his mouth.

She just nodded in reply and sipped quietly at her drink.

He studied her a bit more as he licked his lips to recapture the few drops that missed his mouth. "So what exactly made you decide to come into this place?" he asked.

She sighed and looked at herself in the mirror behind the bar, as if asking herself the same question. "Oh, you know," she turned to look Peter in the eye, "life…once in a while you just want to get away from it all."

Newkirk raised his eyebrows slightly and nodded his head, turning back to his drink, "Yeah, I know that feeling."

Then they shared a sad smile and a mutual silence as each of them recalled past events, recent or distant. The band came alive in the background, playing a lively tune and mocking the couple's brief melancholy disposition.

"Well then," Stephanie sighed, deciding to change the subject, "How long have you been…magicianing?"

Peter chuckled, "I don't even think I know anymore. It seems I've always been doin' some sort of magic trick. Even as a boy, I was interested in magic." He took another drink and then chuckled, "I remember…I got a book, when I was a kid. It had pictures, you know, showin' you 'ow to do simple tricks. But soon I had learned all of them so I started makin' me own up. I'd take the same sort of ideas as in the book and just improve on 'em. And every time I would come up with somethin' new, me sister would always be the first one I showed. She'd come into me room and I'd do me trick…she'd ooh and aah…thought it was all brilliant, she did." Newkirk smiled at the memory.

"Oh, you have a sister? What's her name? Is she older or younger?"

"Younger, and 'er name is Mavis."

"I have a sister, she's older than I, though. Her name is Vivian. She is very…" Stephanie seemed to search hard for the right word. "…good," she finally said.

Newkirk cocked an eyebrow. It was a curious word to use when describing one's sister.

Stephanie apparently caught the confused expression on Peter's face. "What I mean by that is just that…she seems to be the sort of person who always gets things right the first time around. You know? I can't really remember her ever failing to any serious degree. But she's really a sweet girl, when you get her talking."

Peter nodded, "Yeah, Mavis is the same way. She's a quiet one, alright. But you get 'er to open up and she's got a gem of a personality inside. 'Course, she's not much to look at but-"

"Well you don't know that," Stephanie interrupted.

Peter tilted his head, "What's that?"

"I said you can't know if your sister is anything to look at. She's your sister. No brother ever finds his sister attractive, because he's her brother, and it just doesn't work that way. But it _could_ be that she's a real beauty, and you just can't see it. But don't be surprised when some other gentleman comes along and can't take his eyes off of her." She went back to her drink and left Newkirk to consider her words.

He thought about it for a while. Finally, he jutted out his bottom lip and raised his eyebrows a bit, "I guess you might have a point there. I'm sure Mavis doesn't fancy me very handsome. But lookin' at me, I mean…" He gave an expression as if to say, 'who could really deny my attractiveness?'

She eyed him out of the corner of her eye with both elbows on the counter and her glass dangling between her hands. She was trying to appear disapproving, but finally cracked and allowed a smile to creep onto her face. She had to admit that the man really was quite handsome, but she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of having it verbalized.

Seeing her smile and hearing her chuckle lightly like that was pleasing enough for Peter. He liked seeing her smile. Her chin, when in a normal position, was round and slightly pouty; but when she smiled, it stiffened and became the launching pad for the rest of the smile. And her whole face would light up in one fluid undulation until even her eyes were smiling. He decided that he would enjoy making this woman laugh.

And so he did. They sat together and chatted for nearly two hours, nursing their original glasses the entire time (Stephanie, because she wasn't really much of a drinker; and Newkirk, because he didn't want to blow his whole paycheck on one night). They were content in their conversation until Stephanie glanced behind the bar and her eyes settled on a small desk clock, ticking away next to a half-full bottle of whisky.

"Oh my, look at the time!" she gasped as she started to rise from her stool.

Peter glanced at the clock too and saw that it was nearly twelve o'clock. "What's the matter? 'ave you got someplace to be tonight?"

She hurriedly gathered her purse and her shoes she had kicked off. "Yes, yes," she said, "I have to get home! I never intended to be out this late!"

Seeing that he probably wasn't going to convince her to stay, Peter stood and paid for the drinks. He followed her out of the pub and onto the quiet London street outside. He looked around. Just a few lampposts illuminated the street. Next to the building in which the pub was located, an alleyway stretched into the darkness. He watched as a lone cat emerged from the shadows of the alleyway. It made the swift jaunt across the abandoned street and down the opposite sidewalk before scaling the side of another dark building via rain gutter. Once the cat was out of sight, it appeared as thought Peter and Stephanie were the only living souls remaining on that street.

"Where's your pumpkin and those mice of yours?" he asked, turning to observe her as she reapplied her shoes.

She chuckled, "These days, Cinderellas take cabs."

He took her purse and held it so she didn't have to adjust her shoe straps with one hand.

"Couldn't I just walk you 'ome, or somethin'?"

She looked up at him, "No…no, that's really not necessary." Then, with both shoes on her feet, she retrieved her handbag and started across the street, resembling the cat in her movements. "Thank you though!" she said over her shoulder.

"Can't I at least wave you down a cab?" Peter called.

She stopped her retreat and turned to face him. Finally, she nodded with a trace of a smile, "I suppose you could do that."

He jogged to reach her, looping his arm through hers and turning his head to say, "Then we'd best 'ead down a few blocks. It doesn't look like there'll be much traffic 'ere."

So he managed to acquire a few more precious moments with Stephanie. They walked together, arm in arm. He couldn't help but noticed how she instinctively clutched him closer when a couple of rats tumbled noisily around in some rubbish bins right next to the couple as they passed. _'Hey, thanks for that mates. I'll 'ave to remember to throw an apple core your way sometime.'_ But Peter's heart sank when he spotted a black taxicab driving slowly down the street, as if it were searching for them. He removed his free hand from his pocket and waved the cab down. He remembered his manners and opened the door for her.

But before she climbed in, she turned to him and said, "I really enjoyed getting to know you, Peter."

"Yeah…" he said lamely. He wanted an excuse to keep her from getting in the cab. He didn't want her to leave, but she had no reason to stay with him. Still, he needed to say something.

With a small smile and a simple nod, she turned to get in the cab.

"Stephanie?"

She looked at him again, having prayed (or was it predicted) that he would speak up.

He cleared his throat, "Do you think…there's anyway that--I could see you again?"

She smiled, "I'd like that, very much."

Peter allowed himself to smile in return, "Good, then why don't we meet back at the pub again tomorrow night, same time as before?"

"Better make it a bit earlier. I really don't make it a habit to stay out this late."

He nodded, "Eight then?"

"Eight," She nodded. She hesitated once more, as if contemplating something. And Peter waited too, not knowing what she would decide. Finally, she seemed to have opted against it and climbed into the cab without another word. Peter stepped backwards onto the sidewalk and watched the cab pull away from the curb, taking her home, to sit in the cinders next to the fire place.

* * *

**Canon inspiration for this chapter:** The show put on for Klink's birthday in "Praise the Fuhrer and Pass the Ammunition", as well as other episodes that feature Newkirk's magic abilities.


	4. Stitch in Time

**Author's Note: **In this chapter, we meet a character by the name of Marty. Being a great fan of NCIS, as well as The Man from UNCLE, I always seem to picture Marty being played by the wonderful David McCallum. Feel free to accredit to Marty any features you'd like. By no means let my imagination stand in the way of yours. But I still thought I'd mention it. Of course, Marty would be during Mr. McCallum's Ducky days rather than his Illya ones, but I digress.

* * *

Chapter Four: Stitch in Time

After returning to the pub to retrieve his magic equipment, Newkirk made his way back home, his thoughts still fixed on Stephanie. That was a lucky break that she happened to pop up like that. Newkirk was fairly certain that if that last trick hadn't been a success, some of those blokes would have done him over the moment he left the pub. And he was also pretty sure that he wouldn't be welcomed to play at that particular establishment ever again.

But now, since that little beauty showed up and saved the day, Newkirk was spared…and, to be honest, he was also quite taken by her. She was lovely, and pleasant, and had a good sense of humor. But she was also very different from girls Newkirk had known in the past. She was easy to talk to. Newkirk couldn't determine exactly why it was so easy to talk with her. Usually he had a problem keeping up conversation with girls. He just didn't know what they liked to talk about most of the time. And quite frankly, when Newkirk was with beautiful women, a lull in conversation wasn't the worst of his enemies. Like many men his age, Newkirk liked to be a doer instead of a talker (especially when it came to women). But for some reason, with Stephanie it was different. She was just so interesting! And Newkirk got the feeling that she was interested in him as well. They talked for hours and he never got bored or anxious. That surprised Newkirk. He never thought he could be that genuinely entertained by just _talking_ to a beautiful woman! Needless to say, he enjoyed his time with her immensely and she left quite the impression on him.

Newkirk turned down an alley and retrieved his key from his pocket. There were two doors in the alleyway; one to the almost immediate right, and then another farther down and to the left. Newkirk came to the door on the left and unlocked it. It was actually the back door to the Stitch in Time tailor workshop, but Martin—the owner—was a decent chap and let Newkirk and his mate, Harry stay in the basement for a good price. As thanks, Newkirk often helped Martin with some of the sewing when the older man became overwhelmed by projects.

The door from the alley led into the back storage room of the shop. There was a staircase in the corner leading down to the basement, but as Newkirk headed to the stairs, something caught his eye. There was light shooting out from underneath the door leading into the main shop area. Someone was still awake. Newkirk set down his magic case next to the staircase and then went into the workshop. He stood in the doorway and his eyes swiftly glanced around the shop. Soon, his eyes landed on a tired form hunched over a workbench.

Martin's hands were nimbly stitching the inner leg seam of a nice pair of pants. The single lamp that sat on the table cast a huge shadow of the expert tailor on the bland wall of the workshop. His eyes were drooping and Newkirk knew that only half of it was from age, the rest must have been due to the tailor's lack of sleep.

"Up a bit late, aren't we, Marty?" Newkirk asked from the doorway.

Martin looked up and gazed at Newkirk through his glasses which perched low on the man's sharp nose. Finally recognizing his helpful tenant in the dim light, Martin smiled, "Ah, Peter. You scared me."

The younger man smiled as he approached the workbench, "Sorry for that. Do you know what time it is?"

The tailor nodded and looked back down at his work, "It's very late, I know."

"Nina won't 'alf take on if you're 'ome late."

Marty sighed, "I know, and I don't like upsetting her, especially with her nerves. But it can't be helped I'm afraid. I must get these done by the morning. The customer called in about an hour ago, said he'd be by to pick it up a day early."

Newkirk eyed the table. What was once merely pinstriped fabric was now a nice pair of dress pants. _'You've got to admire the ol' boy's work. He knows 'ow to make a smart suit, 'e does,' _Newkirk thought. "Anythin' I can 'elp with?"

Marty chuckled and shook his head softly, "Bless your soul, Peter. You are a helpful one, aren't you? I'm nearly done with the trousers. You can have a go at the jacket if you want. It still needs a bit of work."

Newkirk glanced toward another workbench and spotted the jacket. He examined it and saw immediately that it wasn't too bad off. The breast, sides, and shoulders were all done. It had only the sleeves, cuffs, and bottom hem to go. Newkirk took the jacket and joined Marty again at his bench, sharing the lamp as a light source.

"I hate pinstripe," Newkirk said as he started his sewing. "It makes crooked fabric and sloppy sewing easier to spot."

Again, the older man chuckled, "I don't think you have too much to worry about, Newkirk. You're a good tailor. I'd even hire you if the funds allowed it."

"Funds…" Newkirk sounded disgusted even by the word, "They do manage to get in the way of a lot of things, don't they?"

Marty sighed, "Sadly, yes."

The two men went to work. Marty's hands weaved over the fabric with swift precision. His muscles had memorized each tiny movement it took to sew a fine suit. Newkirk, however, did not have fingers that were as well trained as Marty's. Therefore, the young magician was slower and more methodical with each stitch than his older companion. But between the two of them, they made wonderful progress. As Newkirk finished his final stitch, he bit off the excess thread and said as he stood, "There you are! All done!"

Marty glanced over at the jacket and smiled, "Not quite…but I can do the rest."

Newkirk looked surprised, "What do you mean? It looks great!"

"It may_ look_ great, but that doesn't mean that it's ready to be worn."

Newkirk looked again at the jacket. It looked ten times as nice as anything Newkirk had ever worn. Certainly it wasn't as bad as Martin thought. "It looks fine to me," he said.

Marty grinned and replied, "That's because you don't know what it takes to stop a seam from popping."

Newkirk was still confused, but he continued to listen.

"Look, I'll show you," Martin liked to take any opportunity he could to teach something he knew to someone else, "See these seams along here?" He ran his fingers across Newkirk's stitching, "Aaaand…here?" He pointed to some of the other seams. "All of these will have to be done again."

Newkirk, now slightly offended, exclaimed, "You're gonna take out me stitching?"

"No, no…not take them out, _add_ to them."

Newkirk looked with intrigue towards the seams once more.

Martin continued, "See, the way these seams are now, it wouldn't take much to make them burst. It's not good enough to go over each seam with some cotton. You've got to stitch them at least three, sometimes four times over to make sure they don't give when the man goes to lift something or throw something-"

"Or punch something," Newkirk added. "Or some_one_, in this case…like a faulty tailor who let's 'is seams go poppin'."

Marty laughed, "Right."

Newkirk nodded, realizing Marty's point and remembering it for the future.

"But you don't need to worry about it, Newkirk. You've already done the time consuming part. The fabric is straight and has the right measurements. I can take care of the rest in no time. It's already gone into the morning and I'm sure you need some rest. Go to bed, Peter."

"Now wait a minute. I don't need rest any more than you do, mate. I can stay and 'elp."

"No, no, you've been help enough. I can manage the rest without you. And you certainly don't want to be falling asleep later tomorrow because you didn't rest enough tonight."

Newkirk thought about Stephanie. It would be rather embarrassing if he were too sleepy and missed their date tomorrow night. Plus, he didn't know anything about her. Where she lived, what her telephone number was, it was all a mystery to him. If he missed tomorrow night, there was a good chance he could never see her again. Plus, after feeling thoroughly humbled in his evidently poor tailoring skills, Newkirk felt that Marty probably _could_ get it all finished without him (and probably a lot faster, too).

"Well…if you're _sure_…"

Marty stood and turned Newkirk to face the door. "I'm positive," he said as he patted Newkirk's shoulder, encouraging his retreat.

"Alright, I'll see you tomorrow then."

Marty returned to his work, but not before voicing a friendly, "Nightie-night!"

Soon, Newkirk was walking down the stairs, into his basement quarters for the night.

* * *

I know it was a bit short, but hopefully this chapter was still enjoyable for you. Please feel free to review!

**Canon Inspiration for this chapter: **From the episode "Gowns by Yvette", as LeBeau is getting impatient waiting for Newkirk to finish sewing a wedding dress…

LeBeau: That looks good enough to me.

Newkirk: That's because you don't know what it takes to stop a seam from popping!


	5. Mr Grocery Bag Man

I'm sorry for the delay in getting this posted. I left town for the weekend and didn't think to bring my laptop along. So I made you wait a few days longer than I had intended, and for that I'm sorry. I hope you enjoy the chapter regardless. Hopefully you'll find the length of this one an improvement from the last.

**Author's Note:** I admit that I have never actually been to London, and I don't claim to know much about the layout of the city or anything of that sort. So my description in this chapter may be totally off, and for that, I'm sorry. But I tried to keep it vague for the most part. If there are any blaring problems, I would welcome correction by any of you wonderful British readers out there.

* * *

Chapter Five: Mr. Grocery Bag Man

There are numerous unpleasant ways to be awoken in the morning. Among them would be falling out of bed, having water thrown on you, and hearing a scream from somewhere in the vicinity. But certainly high on the list would have to be the screechy, off-key voice of Harry Rafewood singing _Waltzing Matilda _at the top of his lungs. To make it worse, the scruffy rogue wasn't even getting the words right.

Newkirk's brow furrowed and he smudged his face against the pillow as he tried to fight wakefulness. Peering out of one eye, Newkirk saw Harry doing some strange dance to accompany his horrid tune.

The dancing idiot gave two oddly flamboyant kicks, nearly flinging his shoes from his feet. "Waltzing Matilda, WALTZING MATILDA! Who'll come-a-waltzing Matilda with me!?"

Annoyed, Newkirk dug his head back into his pillow.

Harry tapped his feet against the floor a few more times in an odd jig before catapulting himself off of his bed frame and into the air for the big finish. "And we sang with me cat. And we waited while the Billy boiled. You'll come-a-waltzing Matilda with meeeeeeeee!" As his final flat note reverberated around the room, Harry used his sleepy friend's back as a snare and smacked a drum roll into Newkirk's tired muscles.

Newkirk rolled his shoulder back to swat away his annoying friend, "Get away from me, you're balmy!"

Harry simply cackled as he straightened.

Still rather tired, Newkirk was grumpy as he exclaimed, "And you got the words bloody wrong! There's no bloomin' cat in the whole flippin' song!"

"Well, that's what happens when you sleep in," Harry said with an utterly amused grin. He gave a swift slap to the top of Newkirk head, "Get up!"

Newkirk rolled over and started to sit up. "That doesn't even make sense," he said as he scratched his head and flung his feet over the edge of the bed.

"It doesn't matter. Get up," Harry responded, totally undaunted by Newkirk's cranky attitude. Harry had been friends with Newkirk long enough to know that the magician wasn't typically a morning person. They had met about nine years before, when Newkirk was 15 and Harry was 17; about a week after Peter was thrown out of the house by his old man. Newkirk had obviously never been on his own before and was having a hard time at it. Harry felt bad for the kid and took him under his street-smart wing. With a mentally unstable mother who was carried off to the nuthouse, and a father who had been dead for twelve years, Harry had been fending for himself for a number of years. It was easy for him to show Newkirk the ropes, and the two became fast friends.

They were as close as brothers. Harry's optimism combated Newkirk's pessimism, and they were always very competitive. _Especially_ when it came to women. Newkirk could win the best looking competition against Harry (his curly head and round, scruffy face were hardly the average woman's ideals), but Harry could always beat Newkirk in the charm department. The man was smooth and tactical in all the right ways. He knew how to talk anyone into or out of anything, and that's what made him and Newkirk such a team on the streets.

Harry spotted a pair of Newkirk's pants wadded up on the floor and tossed them to his friend. "I've got to tell ya something, mate."

As Newkirk pulled the pants on, he cocked a tired eyebrow towards Harry, "Yeah? What's so important then?" He stood up and stretched his arms towards the ceiling, waking all of his muscles that still wished to be resting, before he hunted for a shirt.

"Well, last night, as I was scopin' out the neighborhood…"

"And by 'neighborhood', you mean 'birds'," Newkirk interjected.

Harry grinned, "Well, what's a little business without play? Which reminds me, I'm goin' to have to borrow them magic flowers of yours again."

"Uhhuh…" Newkirk nodded knowingly, "Go on."

"Right. So I was lookin' around near Old Town Bakery when I spotted this chap walkin' down the lane. I thought it was odd to see him walkin' about because he was obviously a chap with money. He was sportin' a top hat, cane, gold watch chain and all that! And there he went, just tramping down the street like a regular bloke. So I said to meself, 'Self, this looks promising.' So I followed him. Guess where he led to?"

This story was taking forever. Newkirk shook his head with a glare, "Harry, I swear, if you don't get on with it, I'll knock you!"

"It was some fancy hotel, the one right near where Adeline and Bainbridge meet. You know it? It's the tall one with all them carvings in it?"

Newkirk nodded, grabbing a nearby shirt, "I know it."

"Yeah well, this place was packed with those sorts of men. All with their hats and canes. Cor, you'd think the hotel was throwin' some bloody toff convention!"

Newkirk popped his head through the shirt collar and then froze. "Is that so?" he said in a low, thoughtful voice. He continued to consider this news before he slowly pulled the shirt into position and asked, "And when did you see this?"

"Last night, around nine. But I stayed till well past eleven and they were still at it."

"You think they might still be there?"

Harry thought about it, jutting out his lower lip, "I don't know. I mean it is a hotel. I suppose they could still be there."

"Well let's 'ave a look then!" Newkirk snapped his suspenders into place, grabbed his scally cap and some shoes, and within moments, they were heading up the stairs.

The streets of London possessed the level of activity characteristic of all well-populated cities of the day. Cars of black and blue sped across the cobblestoned roads at speeds of 25 miles per hour. Men and women walked up and down the sidewalks, admiring the items that were displayed in every store window. A few children (who had evidently skipped school for the day) ran through the crowds, pausing to swing their toy weapons at each other a few times before continuing their high-spirited racing.

The hotel at the corner of Adeline and Bainbridge was easily the most impressive structure on the block. It reached a height of seven stories—a full three stories taller than most of its fellow buildings in the area—and was richly decorated with many fine images sketched into its stone. Advertising banners, which promised great deals on reservations and the finest staff in all of London, hung like tapestries from the two pillars on either side of the main entrance.

Across the street from this elegant hotel was a small café; and it was from a table outside the café that Newkirk and Harry scrutinized the building across the way.

"Harry, ol' chum, I think you may 'ave been a bit mistaken in your evaluation of this place. We've been 'ere forty minutes and 'aven't seen a single top hat or cane."

"I wasn't makin' it up. There was a whole troop of 'em! Just give it more time."

Newkirk rolled his eyes, "Look mate, either they weren't 'ere, or they're not comin' back any time soon. Meanwhile, we've been wastin' time sittin' out at this joint. We've got to get crackin'! We 'aven't paid ol' Marty in three months! Let's start workin' another street, come on-" Newkirk said as he moved to rise from his seat.

Harry reached over and grabbed his friend's arm, "Not yet, Newkirk. Let's hold out a bit longer." Seeing that his chum still wasn't convinced, Harry leaned forward and said in a quieter voice, "Look 'ere, Newkirk, we could pinch more loot off of one of those blokes than we could with all the other wallets on Kingstreet combined!"

"But 'ow are we supposed to know if they'll be 'ere in the day light?" Newkirk challenged.

"They're not ruddy vampires, Newkirk!" Harry quipped.

"You know what I mean! What if it's some fancy night time get-together or somethin'? We could go off and work another street and then come back later."

"Well how are we supposed to find that out? Go up and ask the chum at receptions?"

Newkirk glanced towards the hotel, noting that their doorman was busy assisting a lady guest. The woman was wearing examples of London's finest fashion, with a small ladies cap worn at a tilt over immaculately groomed hair, and a large fur shawl draped over a royal blue gown. An expensive looking car waited for the woman by the curb. Newkirk glanced once more at the doorman. The woman seemed to be keeping the doorman distracted enough, there was a chance Newkirk could slip by unnoticed. Looking back at his friend and partner in crime, he finally replied, "Sure, why not?"

Harry's eyes widened and he laughed out, "You're daft, mate."

Newkirk just cleared his throat and stood, "Wait 'ere." He removed his hat, licked his hand, and ran his fingers through his hair to slick it all into a mildly proper state before tucking his hat into his back pocket. He straightened his shirt and tucked its tails into his trousers before plastering a determined look on his face as he set out for the hotel.

Harry watched as Newkirk swiftly crossed the street. He paused in front of the small set of stairs leading up to the entrance, feigning to admire the stone lion guarding the hotel while he waited for the doorman to turn the other way. Within moments, the coast was clear and Newkirk disappeared through the door.

A short time passed before the doors to the hotel flew open again. A man stepped forward, wearing a stylish hotel uniform, and forcefully holding Newkirk by the arm and collar.

"Stay out of here you filthy mutt!" The man commanded as he shoved Newkirk down the stairs.

Newkirk stumbled forward, trying to catch his footing before he fell. A young couple passing by took a step backward to avoid running into him.

The hotel manager, for that's who he was, pointed an accusing finger at Newkirk. "This is no place for the likes of you! We have respectable people here! Now go! Leave!" he ordered, his posh accent causing something in Newkirk's stomach to churn.

Newkirk glared at the imbecile with indignation. He glanced around and saw that a few people had stopped walking and were staring at him. With a huff of angry embarrassment, he shot one more piercing glance towards the manager and then, straitening his hair that had been rustled in the fall, he turned and marched back across the street.

Harry stood as he watched his friend approach. Having witnessed the whole ordeal from afar, he was concerned for his friend. He knew that Newkirk did not take such prejudice very easily. "Well?" he asked once Newkirk was in ear shot.

Newkirk's face was scowling bitterly as he reached for his hat in his back pocket. "Come on," he said, putting on the hat, "we're going. The toffs won't be back til tonight."

* * *

They operated just like clockwork. With Harry's charm, and Newkirk's swift fingers, the two made quite a pair. The game was this, Harry would find a good target and then join them as they walked, engaging them in some sort of trivial conversation. The goal was to not ask anything of them, not even for them to stop walking, only to make simple conversation that was easily forgettable. Harry would accompany the stranger to the end of the block, where they would stand and wait for clear passage across the road. As a crowd would gather to cross the street, Newkirk would join the assembly. With Harry occupying the man's attention, Newkirk would move in. Then with two, sometimes three simple movements, the man's wallet and/or pocket watch would be in Newkirk's hands.

They had other gags that they pulled as well, like ways to slip a ring right off a man's finger while asking for directions, or the ever popular, bump-in-to-him-and-swipe-his-wallet bit. Harry's favorite routine was one where he could exercise his acting ability. He would pretend to be drunk and would somehow convince passersby to let him teach them an Irish jig (the man was very fond of dancing, after all; although he lacked any talent for it). With the target having fun concentrating on the steps, and his body in constant movement, it was easy for Newkirk to get his hands in and out without anyone growing wise. Needless to say, with nine years under their belts, they were a well-polished act.

Just as they were finishing up a scam, Harry approached his friend, "How much have we got so far?"

Sitting at a quiet table outside a restaurant, Newkirk was trying to be inconspicuous as he counted the bills in each wallet. He covered the activities of his hands with a newspaper he had found abandoned on the table. Newkirk sighed, "Not very much, I'm afraid," was his reply.

Harry gave a whistle, apparently paying no heed to Newkirk's words. "Pity you couldn't bump in to her, what?"

Newkirk looked up from what he was doing and followed Harry's gaze to a beautiful young woman. Her hair was jet black and her face was as pale as flower. She was richly dressed and wore many fine jewels around her wrists and neck. Her purse was small and dangled from a long strap at her arm.

Newkirk looked back at the wallets in his hand, "You know our rule: No birds, elderlies, or cripples."

"That wasn't exactly what I had in mind, mate!" he cocked an eyebrow at Newkirk, "You mean to tell me you had a look at that dame and all you saw was 'er jewelry? Cor, blimy! You know, I wonder about you sometimes Newkirk. That maybe you're one of them strange ones," he teased.

"What?!" Newkirk exclaimed, his voice nearly cracking in shock. "Of course I see girls! What's the matter with you?"

Harry laughed, knowing he would evoke such a response.

Newkirk continued, "You know I've caught plenty more girls in the past than you 'ave, mate."

Again, Harry laughed, this time in an unbelieving scoff. "Right then, and all that took place the same day ol' King George had me over for tea!" Harry bellowed mockingly.

Newkirk shrugged off his friend's joking with a simple, "Oh, leave off."

A few moments of silence passed between the pair. They searched the crowds of people for another potential target. Finally, Newkirk's eyes landed on a man in his late forties. He was exiting a grocery store. His left arm was looped through the handles of a grocery bag while his right hand held his wallet. Obviously he had just paid the grocer and had yet to put the wallet back in his pocket. Newkirk watched as the older man placed his wallet in the outside pocket of his overcoat. A small smile came across Newkirk's lips. The weight and thickness of the coat would make movement in the pocket almost impossible to feel. Newkirk could swipe the wallet without the man ever sensing the theft.

"'ello, 'ello, 'ello," Newkirk exclaimed, gesturing towards the new target with a nod of his head, "'ave a look at Mr. Grocery Bag."

Harry soon saw the man, "You want to have a go at 'im?"

"Yeah…" Newkirk said absently, still eyeing the man, "let's go." He got up from the table and took the newspaper with him. It was always good to look like you were preoccupied with something else when trying to snatch someone's money.

The two conmen took their places and soon, the act was on. Newkirk leaned against a wall and pretended to read the newspaper as Harry and Mr. Grocery Bag approached. Out of the corner of his eye, Newkirk studied the man with a still gaze. The hair that was visible underneath his fedora was dark, and just barely turning gray. His eyes were kind and blue, and defined crows feet shot out of the corner of each eye. Despite the otherwise harsh angles of his cheek bones and jaw line, the man had a gentle aspect to his features. Newkirk's eyes drifted lower and he saw the coat pocket. It was a large opening that lacked a button to keep it closed. _'Piece of cake, this is!'_ Newkirk thought with an inward smile.

As Harry and Mr. Grocery Bag Man passed, Newkirk moved forward and with two fluid motions, he had the wallet and was walking in the opposite direction. He turned and leaned up against another wall as he retrieved his treasure from beneath his sleeve. Folding the newspaper and tucking it under his arm, Newkirk spread the wallet open and began to count the bills. Indeed this was the best catch of the day.

As he was fingering the money, a hand came out of nowhere and grasped Newkirk's wrist. Newkirk was startled as he was forced to turn around and was suddenly staring face to face with Mr. Grocery Bag Man.

"I do hope you were planning on returning that to me, my good man," he said.

A taken aback Newkirk glanced behind the accusing man to see Harry with a terrified look on his face. The latter hiked his shoulders in amazement to say he had no idea how the older man could have known. Still stunned, Newkirk just stood there as the Grocery Bag Man took the wallet back.

He thumbed through the contents of the leather, "Let's see here...yes, well, it seems it is all in order. Everything is where it ought to be," the man said with a jolly smile that confused Newkirk.

Newkirk breathed heavily, wondering what he should do. Obviously he was caught. All this man had to do was call for a nearby policeman and Newkirk would be thrown in jail, probably Harry, too. Could he run? There were a number of people on the streets. Newkirk was certain he could out run the older man if he tried. But he couldn't manage to get in a position where he could take off. Newkirk had painted himself into a rather literal corner. The wall he had chosen to lean up against covered Newkirk on two sides, and the little room the walls left for an escape was currently blocked by the man standing in front of him.

Finally, Newkirk decided to make a break for it. He moved to squeeze pass the man and dash away. But the man placed a firm hand on Newkirk's shoulder and pushed him forcefully back against the wall. Newkirk was at first surprised by the older man's strength. The fact that he could be overpowered by a man significantly inferior to himself is size was astounding to Newkirk. He stared at the Grocery Bag Man in wonder as he straightened his shirt.

The man clicked his tongue in disapproval as he peered into his grocery sack. "Now don't go and do a thing like that. You'll squash my mushrooms for sure." When he received no reply, the man looked up and eyed Newkirk suspiciously, "You're not a terribly talkative one are you? Though, I suppose you wouldn't have to be with that friend of yours, wherever he is." As he said this, the man shot a glance over his shoulder in search of Harry, but he wasn't there. He had left to observe the proceedings at a safer distance. "He seems to be able to talk enough for both of you. The young man certainly has a lot to say, it would appear."

Newkirk didn't understand this. The friendly and teasing tone of this man was completely throwing Newkirk off guard. Was this man mocking him? Was he just playing with his head? It was clear that he had caught Newkirk. What did the Grocery Bag Man think he stood to gain by treating his prisoner this way? Newkirk didn't know, but he was oddly irritated by it at any rate.

"Alright then, go on and call ol' bobby," the thief said at last, "You know you 'ave me."

The man looked at Newkirk with a grin, "Indeed I do. But quite frankly, I'm not at all interested in having you thrown in jail."

Newkirk glared skeptically towards his strange captor. Newkirk had just tried to steal this man's wallet. Why would he let him go free?

Seeing the look on Newkirk's face, the older man chuckled. "The truth is I am fairly interested in this talent of yours. Your fingers are quite slick. So slick, in fact, that I nearly didn't detect your hand in my pocket at all. Tell me, what is your name?"

Newkirk hesitated. He had no desire to get chummy with this odd man. He felt safer knowing that at least his name, if not his face, was left unknown to the older man. But, at the same time, Newkirk still feared that the man would turn on him and call for the police. So, Newkirk decided it might be best to just comply with his request. "Peter," he said at last.

The man cocked an eyebrow, indicating he expected a last name to be given as well.

Newkirk gulped, "Peter Newkirk is me name."

"Well, then Peter, my boy, how long have you been a sneak thief?"

Newkirk straightened slightly, resenting the title even though it was a resentment to which he had no right. He hesitated before giving an answer. He hated every moment of this encounter. "A few years I guess," he finally replied.

"Well, for having been at it only a few years, you've certainly matured a fine talent."

Now he was _complimenting_ Newkirk for trying to steal his wallet? What on earth was this fellow up to? Newkirk scrutinized the man, but he could not figure him out. He was unlike any other man Newkirk had ever met. Even as his property was being threatened by some poor kid, this bloke acted high-spirited, even cordial to his thieving companion. It was the strangest thing Newkirk had ever seen.

The man continued to flash Newkirk a cheery grin as he said, "If I may, I'd like to shake your hand." He grasped Newkirk's hand and gave it a hearty shake, "You have a great talent, my boy. A _great_ talent! Though you could probably use some more practice, I assume."

He withdrew his hand and began to back away, but not before sending a good slap to Newkirk's shoulder. "Keep up the good work, lad. Good day!" As he was walking away, he snapped his fingers and said, "Woops, I almost forgot." He turned around and handed something to Newkirk, "I believe this is yours…"

Newkirk looked down and accepted the thing from the man. It was Newkirk's own watch. The man must have slipped it right off Newkirk's wrist during the hand shake. Newkirk glanced back up in shock just in time to see the man give him a quick wink and then turn to walk away. A puzzled smile came across Newkirk's face as he watched the strange man walk down the sidewalk until he turned a corner and disappeared.

A few moments later, Harry approached his friend again. "What on earth happened? I thought he was goin' to cart you off for sure!"

Newkirk had remained in his little corner and was still staring towards where the man had gone. "So did I," he replied, still rather shocked.

"Well what did you do wrong? How did he know you had his wallet?"

Newkirk glanced at the watch in his hands with a small smile, "I think…I think 'e was a thief."

Harry looked surprised, "Why do you say that?"

Newkirk looked back up at Harry. "Because he gave me this," he said, holding up the watch.

Harry's eyes landed on the thing in Newkirk's hand and his eyebrows lowered. "Blimey!" he breathed, "That's your watch….You mean you never even felt it?"

Newkirk shook his head slowly, "No."

"Then that bloke wasn't just any ol' pickpocket! He must have been some ruddy master at it!"

"Well I don't know about that," Newkirk said, tucking the newspaper under his arm and reapplying the watch once again, "…but 'e was good."

* * *

**Canon Inspiration for this chapter:** Obviously Newkirk's rather shady talents as exhibited in countless episodes.

**Also:** Newkirk's apparent resentment of the upper-class. I looked for the specific episode I had in mind, but couldn't find it in time to post this chapter. But there have been several instances where Newkirk would make subtle quips at the more posh British officers who would pass through Stalag 13. From those scenes, I always adopted the idea that he seemed to have some bitter feelings towards the upper-class, so that's where I got the hotel scene.


	6. Happy Married Life

Chapter Six: Happy Married Life

The two partners in crime decided that it would be best if they left that street for a while, just in case anyone had observed the interaction between Newkirk and Mr. Grocery Bag Man. They opted to head back to the tailor shop for a little break. Both men were still a little startled after having almost been caught.

Newkirk entered the main workshop with Harry following close behind. Marty was sitting at his bench as usual. But instead of having fabric and thread in his hands, he held a sandwich. And if Newkirk's eyes and nose were accurate, it was pastrami and cranberries on wheat, the elderly tailor's favorite.

Harry also seemed to notice the sandwich because his nose turned upward in a grimace. "Marty, ol' man," he said, "you've got many things to admire about you…but your taste in food isn't one of 'em. I don't know how you can eat that rubbish."

"Rubbish?" a high pitched voice spoke out in shock.

Newkirk's attention turned to the elderly woman emerging from across the room. It was Nina, Marty's wife of forty six years. She was short, just like Marty, only she was a bit more round. Her sandy blond hair had been slowly invaded with salty gray strands over the years until her head appeared nearly completely gray. Her eyes matched her husbands in color, bright blue, radiating the life and spirit the couple still possessed after all those years. They were a sweet pair. In all the time Newkirk had known Marty, he had never heard the older man say one disparaging thing about his wife. They were obviously in love, although they were very discrete about showing it. Nevertheless, their tender touches and respectful words spoke volume to their devotion.

"Rubbish, eh? Is that what you think of my cooking?" Nina demanded.

"Sorry, Nina," Harry responded with a smile, "I didn't see you was there!" He tried to defend himself but the old girl was already on the attack.

"Oh you didn't did ya?" She said, swatting him a few times with the towel she held in her hand, "Well take that! And that! You big bully!"

Harry laughed as he tried to deflect her swinging, "I'm sorry ma'am! I didn't mean it!"

Newkirk laughed at the sight before he finally grabbed Nina by the hips and pulled her away from his friend. "Come on now, lovie," He bent over and placed a polite kiss on her cheek, "You know we live for your cookin'."

She gazed up at Newkirk with an affectionate smile. These boys were like the sons she and Marty never had, and she loved them so much, especially Newkirk. "Oh, Peter," she said, cupping the side of his face in her hand. "You sweet boy."

He smiled back at the small woman as he released her from his hold.

"Well I'm certainly glad to hear that, because I brought you boys some sandwiches!" she said cheerily as she headed over to the picnic basket she had brought.

Newkirk and Harry took a seat next to Marty at the workbench as Nina brought them their food; turkey on wheat for Harry, and ham and cheddar on brown bread for Newkirk. Both sandwiches had a light layer of Nina's special, homemade sauce to make them a bit zestier. The young men started to snack down happily on their food.

Nina waited a few seconds after the first bites before asking, "How is it?"

Newkirk moaned into his sandwich before looking up at the still standing Nina and mumbling, "Diff iv rully good, Nida."

Pleased with the answer, Nina turned away from the table and went to fill some cups with water for them to drink.

"Is that today's paper?" Marty asked, pointing to the folded up item beneath Newkirk's arm.

Newkirk had almost forgotten he was still holding the newspaper he had found. He glanced at the date before responding, "It sure is. You want to 'ave a look at it?" Marty nodded and Newkirk gladly handed him the newspaper.

They ate in silent company for a few moments after that. When one had the opportunity to eat something made by Nina, one didn't waste time talking. Marty was lucky to have found that woman for a wife. Newkirk just wished he would have the same luck.

Then he remembered…Stephanie…their date! He looked quickly at his watch and discovered that he still had quite a bit of time before he was supposed to meet her at the pub. He relaxed some before he turned to Harry and said, "I don't think I'll be able to come with you to the 'otel tonight, mate."

Harry looked surprised, "What? Why not?"

Newkirk hiked his shoulders slightly, "I just can't. I've got someplace I've got to be."

"What, you've got some sort of hot date tonight?" Harry joked.

Newkirk just cracked a wary smile and gave small shrug as he looked away and let that thought trail off.

Harry's eyes grew wide, "You _do_! You DO have a hot date tonight!"

Marty glanced up from his paper with a cocked eyebrow while Nina came racing across the room. She grabbed Newkirk by the shoulders, turned him around slightly and bent down to look him in the eye. "Is that true? Are you seeing a girl later on?"

Newkirk breathed out a small laugh as he hiked his shoulders, "Well, yeah. What's so astonishing about that?"

Nina's face lit up, "Astonished, no. But thrilled, yes! You're going to see a little lady? Oh, what's her name? Is she pretty?" The poor woman was practically dancing with joy. She so wanted Peter to settle down with a nice little girl who would take care of him and give him beautiful babies.

"I guess I should take back all those things I said about you being one of 'em other kind," Harry said with a smirk.

Newkirk nodded his head, "Yes, you should. But I don't see what all the fuss is about. She's not the first girl I've ever dated!"

"No, but she shall be the last!" Nina declared.

Newkirk shot her a confused look.

She pinched Newkirk's chin and shook it slightly from side to side. "After this shall come marriage!" She exclaimed with glee.

The young man's eyebrows hit the roof, "Marriage?!"

"Yes, Peter. You need a wife!" Nina said enthusiastically, slapping Newkirk's shoulder for emphasis. "How much happiness do you think you can get with him?" she asked, throwing a gesture towards Harry.

"Hey," came his defensive reply through a mouthful of food.

"Oh, you need one too! You both do! You each need to find a sweet, young little thing…who can make you blush with a simple glance…"

Here, Newkirk and Harry eyed each other questioningly.

"…and you need to marry her and settle down." She left Newkirk's side and went to stand next to her husband. "See how happy married life is?"

Marty's gaze slowly turned and focused on his wife who was towering over him. He cocked an inquiring eyebrow at her in good humor.

She gasped, "And what does _that_ mean?"

He chuckled unabashedly as he reached to remove her hand from his shoulder. "It means nothing, my love," he said, bringing her hand to his mouth and kissing it softly, "Not a thing." He patted her hand as he continued to look at her affectionately, "But you are being a bit rough on poor Peter. If you keep going on like this, he'll never tell us about his social life again."

She pulled away indignantly, feeling properly chastised, "Well he doesn't _have_ to tell us about his personal life," she said, moving back towards the picnic basket she had brought and trying to seem apathetic. But as she passed Newkirk, she bent low and whispered, "But I do expect a wedding invitation!"

Newkirk gave an exasperated look to his fellow tablemates. Both of the other men just laughed softly.

"Hey now, look at this…" Marty said, changing the subject, "Rumors make it seem like Prime Minister MacDonald has finally narrowed it down to two men for the Leader of the House of Lords."

"Yeah? Who is it?" Harry asked, turning back to his sandwich.

"His Grace, the Duke of Langbourne and His Grace, the Duke of Asterleigh," Marty read.

"I'm off, gentlemen," Nina called as she headed for the door. "Don't you be too late now, Martin."

"Yes, ma'am," Marty said before continuing his reading. "It seems both of them have a lot in common. They both went to Oxford and studied law. They graduated only two years apart. They are both avid horsemen and love croquet." Marty chuckled softly, "Look at these photos. They even have daughters around the same ages, and they have two each. They're so alike, MacDonald might as well flip a coin."

"You said there were four girls? Let's have a look!" Harry said as he reached for the paper. He gave a low whistle, "Whoowee…look at the legs on that one," he mumbled to himself. Before Harry knew what was happening, Newkirk was snatching the paper away to look at it.

"I can't believe it!" He breathed in amazement. He stared long and hard at the picture, but there was no denying it. In the picture of the Duke of Langbourne's family, shown in plain black and white, smiling happily and walking arm in arm with the mother, was Stephanie.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I will be the first to admit that my grasp of British politics is extremely lax. Before writing this story, I tried to do some research in order to keep my facts straight. But evidently I misunderstood what I read, or my sources were indeed wrong. Either way, politically speaking, the first time I posted this chapter, some things didn't really line up with true British government. So, Dust on the Wind was kind enough to review this chapter and point out the mistakes. When I asked for help, Dust was even kind enough to offer some suggestions on how I might improve my story. Man I love my readers! So, that said, I've made a few changes to this and the following chapters. Most notably, the Duke's official title, and his political race. So thank you to Dust on the Wind for all of the great help! It's really important to me that I keep this as accurate as I can. So hopefully these changes will help with that.

**Cannon inspiration for this chapter:** In the episode "Hogan's Springs", when Lebeau brings lunch to Klink and Burkhalter while they are in the spa…

Newkirk (reaching for sandwich): Uh, may I? Oh! Brown bread, I love brown.


	7. Confrontation

Chapter Seven: Confrontation

Newkirk's pace was slow as he made his way back to the pub. If one had just observed him walking down the sidewalk, one might have never guessed that he was heading to fulfill an appointment with a beautiful lady. To tell the truth, he wasn't even sure he still _wanted_ to go on this date.

He had been quite surprised to see Stephanie in the newspaper. Previous dealings with the upper class had left a terrible taste in Newkirk's mouth, to put it politely. He was convinced that they were all stuck-up pigs who didn't care for anyone or anything that didn't sparkle and shine. And the political crowd was the worst of all. They were supposed to govern the people, but not one of those selfish buggers had ever lifted a finger to help Newkirk. Everything he had, he had gotten on his own. Nothing was ever given to him. When _his_ father passed on, he would inherit nothing except empty bottles of whiskey and a pain removed from his backside. The rich cared nothing for Newkirk, and the politicians certainly did nothing but tax the socks off of him. They were as crooked as a bolt of lightening, and often just as dangerous when experienced at close range. How could he ever allow himself to be mixed up with someone of that class? It was insane! Going around with that girl would only lead to trouble, Newkirk was sure of it.

And yet, here he was, slowly making his way towards the pub. After seeing Stephanie in the paper, Newkirk's disposition had dropped for the rest of the day. He had decided not to go. A few hours later, Harry had said, "Hey, shouldn't you be shootin' off, mate? Don't want to leave your little bird waitin'."

He tried to dodge the question, saying he wasn't feeling well and that the girl really wasn't that good looking anyway, but the other crook didn't buy it and told him so. Harry asked his friend what was up; but Newkirk didn't feel particularly proud of his misjudgment of Stephanie, and felt he didn't have to share his reasoning with his friend.

But by that time, Marty was also intrigued by the change in his young tenant's attitude. "If you don't go, Peter, the poor girl will be left alone. She at least deserves the courtesy of some explanation," the old man had said, "Even if you can't stay long, you should, in the very least, drop by and ask to reschedule."

Newkirk had looked Marty in the eyes at that moment and it had been his undoing. The older man had bright blue and brooding eyes. Even though Newkirk's mind told him not to go, his conscience couldn't let Stephanie sit in that crummy pub all night…waiting for him.

So now he approached the pub entrance with pensive eyes, wondering what he was supposed to say to her.

It was nearly ten past eight when the door finally opened to reveal Peter. Lady Stephanie Chambers looked up from her place at a table and smiled. She had almost given up hope that he would show at all. She had been waiting at the pub for nearly fifteen minutes (she was always taught that it was best to arrive early to an appointment rather than late). She had already declined two offers from other men for drinks. She tried to be polite despite the fact that she was made very uncomfortable by the way they were always looking at her. Eventually, after numerous strikeouts, they would return to the bar but would continue to watch her with dark gazes. She tried to ignore them as she sat lonesome at a booth situated in the very corner of the establishment. Stephanie was growing increasingly uncomfortable as the night wore slowly on, and their oppressing stares were starting to grow too much for her when she finally saw the pub door open and Peter walk through.

She smiled warmly and waved at him. He nodded his head, letting her know he saw her before he crossed the room and joined her at the booth. She inwardly sighed when she saw that his arrival had the desired effect on the other men in the pub. They turned solemnly to their respective drinks and resorted to only a few periodic glances towards the booth. The waitress came over and took their order, a scotch for him and a brandy for her. And then they were alone.

"I think that we should choose a different place to meet next time, Peter. I think some of the patrons here are not particularly polite."

Newkirk practically snarled inwardly. That was just the type of judgmental jab a toff would make. Just hearing it made his mind jump back to the incident at the hotel that morning.

Stephanie began to notice something was wrong. Since he had come in, Peter hadn't really made eye contact with her and he seemed to have a scowl on his face. "Peter," she ventured cautiously, reaching forward and placing her hand lightly on his on top of the table, "is something the matter?"

The waitress came by and deposited the drinks before speeding away. Peter still didn't make eye contact. Instead, he turned his head and stared at the legs of the table next to them.

Stephanie's eyes grew concerned. This wasn't the Peter she had left last night. "Whatever it is…you can tell me." Her fingers slowly started to caress his hand comfortingly.

Peter's eyes turned to look at their touching hands. His skin was noticeably darker than hers. His veins were defined and he had some hair on his hand and knuckles. Her skin was much paler and much softer, and her nails were well manicured. She wore a simple, but elegant ring on her right hand. Her fingernails were gently scraping across the back of his hand and the result was a light and rather pleasant tickling sensation. He stared at their hands for a few more moments before looking up at her.

He had forgotten about her eyes until that moment. The chocolate brown pools still seemed to be churning, but now they had another ingredient in them as well. They were concerned. He could see it painfully evident in her eyes. She wanted to know how to help him.

He clenched his jaw. No, he couldn't let her get to him again. It had to end here. "Why didn't you tell me your father was a nobleman?" He had obviously shocked her with that because she straightened up immediately and stared at him in surprise. It also didn't escape Peter's notice that her hand abandoned its massage.

She took a while before responding, "I…I didn't think it was important."

Peter scoffed lightly as he also pulled his hand back and grabbed hold of his drink, "Well you were wrong about that, love," he said, taking a swig of the strong beverage.

Stephanie's eyebrows lowered. She was stunned. If the relationship had continued, she had planned on telling him of course; but so far, she just didn't feel that the time was ever right. Now she was a bit surprised by how he was reacting. "Who told you?" she asked after a while.

"The London Times," he replied, "I saw you little picture in it talkin' about 'ow your daddy wants to lead the 'ouse of Lords."

His tone sounded somewhat begrudged and Stephanie wasn't sure if she should be offended. "Is there a problem with that?" she asked.

Peter set down his cup with more than enough force as he leaned forward and almost growled, "You're bloody right there is."

Now Stephanie knew she should be offended, "Excuse me?"

Peter repositioned himself, leaning onto the tabletop with both arms and gesturing with his hands, "Look, the truth's out now. You and I both know that we come from two different worlds."

"What difference does that make?" she asked, hurt resonating from her voice.

"A huge one. Listen, I haven't got the kind of money you're used to and you couldn't last a day in most of the joints I 'ang out at. I know my friends wouldn't like you and I'm pretty sure your mates wouldn't even look at me, so it's not likely that we could ever manage to find a good place to get together."

"We're together now, aren't we?" she asked.

"Oh sure," he said, leaning back against the bench, "you're just itching to get out of this joint. You said so yourself you don't like it 'ere. You could never be comfortable in my world."

She dropped her head to hide the tears that were threatening to spill.

Peter apparently didn't notice. "The truth is," he said, "you're the type of girl who comes from money…and I've just come from the streets. Now I'm not complaining. I've been 'oldin' me own for quite some time. But it's just not realistic that anything like this could work out between you and me. So why don't you just go back to your palace, or wherever it is your people live, and I'll 'ead on back 'ome and we'll forget any of this ever happened."

She was playing with the hem of her blouse as she tried not to cry. She hadn't expected it to end this soon, and she certainly hadn't expected it to hurt this badly. Her chin quivered as she looked up. "Fine," she said firmly, rising from her seat. "It never happened!"

Newkirk watched as she moved to leave the pub. He was stunned when she stood and he noticed for the first time that she was crying. The chocolates in her eyes seemed to be melting and they glistened as she retreated.

But he didn't go after her. Instead, he finished his drink, and then drank hers which she hadn't touched. He resented paying the heavy bill for the fine brandy, but ignored it. He had done the right thing. Hadn't he? It just couldn't work out any other way…right? He was so lost in his thoughts that he didn't even notice the pair of men that followed Stephanie out the door.

* * *

"Evil…selfish…_hateful_ man!" Stephanie spat as she walked swiftly down the sidewalk. She wasn't very lady like in the way she let her feet pound against the pavement, but she didn't care. She needed to march some anger and hurt out of her system. She choked out a few quiet sobs, reaching into her coin purse for her handkerchief.

What had gotten into him? He seemed so different from when she talked with him only a day ago. The Peter she met at the pub yesterday had been charming and witty. He had seemed interested in her when she spoke, and his voice was kind. But now? He was harsh and negative! And she would never have guessed that he could be so _prejudiced_! That had truly surprised her. He had seemed so very keen on her the night before, but ever since he discovered that she came from money, it was like she was the spawn of Satan! Why on earth would he act that way towards her? She had done nothing to hurt him. He was just being so unreasonable!

"So like a man," Stephanie huffed. He didn't even give her a chance to explain herself. Her father was the same way. Oh sure, he would take his sweet time shooting his mouth off about whatever she did wrong, but the second she had time for a rebuttal, the conversation was over! It made her furious. And it would seem that Peter was the very same way. Good riddance then. If he were the type of man as to mimic her father in temper, then Stephanie was grateful that the relationship had ended before it started.

Stephanie sighed and the speed of her pace lessened slightly. Now _she_ was the one being harsh. She really didn't hate her father that much. Actually, she loved him quite deeply. But she was still riled up over a conversation she had had with her father just that morning.

"_Good morning, Mrs. Welk!" Stephanie had greeted cheerfully as she approached the maid. _

_The older woman stopped fiddling with the second-best tea set that was on her serving tray and looked up. "Good morning, Lady Chambers," the maid had greeted in her usual way._

_Stephanie smiled to herself as she passed the woman on the way into the dining room, thinking not for the first time that the faithful housemaid resembled a basset hound in her features. Stephanie entered the dining hall to find that her mother and father were already seated for breakfast; however, her sister, Vivian, was apparently not down from her room yet. She greeted them with a cheerful "Good morning" before giving each parent a kiss on the cheek and then taking her place at the eating table. _

"_Stephanie, my dear," the Duchess began, "Your father and I were just discussing matters that concern you."_

"_Oh?" Stephanie's attention was turned to her father._

"_Yes," he said, adjusting the folds of his blazer. "You know that the Hamptons are returning from their Summer home in Sussex this month."_

_Stephanie's posture straightened at the name "Hampton" and she dabbed the corner of her mouth with a napkin, even though there was no food there. "I think I'm misunderstanding your meaning, Father. I thought mother said you were discussing something that concerned __**me**__," she said simply as she refolded the cloth napkin to place in her lap._

"_Oh, but of course, it_ does_ concern you, dear!" Stephanie's mother said. "Surely you can see that your father and I have ambitions for you and Mildred's young son, Spencer."_

_Stephanie's stomach tightened, as if preparing for a blow to the gut, "What kind of ambitions?"_

_Arnold Chambers scoffed from the end of the table, "Relational ambitions, of course! Spencer will be celebrating his twenty-first birthday in two weeks' time and the Hampton's are expected to throw a grand party as usual. We are expecting an invitation to come in the mail for you soon."_

_Stephanie grimaced. She couldn't stand Spencer Hampton. Of all the self centered, bigoted imbeciles on earth, Spencer Hampton was chief in all areas of repulsion. And to make matters worse, he wasn't at all attractive! His eyes were far apart and seemed to bulge out of his skull. His mouth was small and lacked any imitation of having lips. He was tall, she had to give him that; but he didn't have any considerable muscle mass to justify his height. He played piano and very poorly, but he was continuously requesting to play duets with her, for she was quite good. His fingers were clumsy and she was certain that he only made such a request so as to have a chance to sit close to her. She never enjoyed those duets. And he smelt heavily of vinegar and fish. "Spencer Hampton?" She allowed herself to whine mildly, "He's not at all what I would consider an attractive creature."_

_The look her comment merited from her father was stern indeed, "Spencer Hampton," Arnold began slowly and in a firm tone, "is a fine and intelligent young man who happens to belong to one of the oldest families in London. To match yourself with him would indeed prove to be beneficial." _

_Stephanie sighed, "But I don't care how old his family is. When I get involved with a man I want it to be because I like him, not because he has good money or an old name."_

_Stephanie's mother, Harriet, began to speak at this point, "Don't you like Spencer?" she asked._

_Stephanie almost laughed out loud at that question, "Have you ever had a conversation with him, Mother? The man can speak of nothing but himself! And remember when we were eating at his estate and the maid tripped and broke her glasses? He laughed! Can you imagine that? He laughed at the poor girl! He is __**not**__ a kind person, Mother."_

_Harriet seemed surprised, "Oh…well, perhaps we misjudged him, Arnold."_

"_Nonsense," the Duke boomed, "He'll do fine as a husband. He's got all the qualities that matter. He's smart, resourceful, knows how to handle money. He'll be good for you, Stephanie. You'll see."_

"_But I don't want to see. I don't want to marry Spencer! I don't even want to get to know him any more than I already do! He's a pig!" Stephanie said._

"_Now you look here, child!" Arnold said harshly, pointing a thick finger at his daughter, "You will do what you're told. You're getting far too old to maintain your childlike romanticism. In the real world you do what you can to get ahead; none of this silly, 'marrying for love' business! If your mother and I choose Spencer Hampton for you, then you will direct your attentions towards Spencer Hampton! No matter what the boy looks like or acts like."_

_Stephanie opened her mouth to talk, but was cut off as her father continued. _

"_You think you understand more about marriage than your mother and I? Do not resent your natural female naivety, child, it's hardly becoming on a girl your age. Do not attempt to impose your childlike reasoning on adult matters. Your mother and I know what's best…and you __**will**__ obey."_

_Again, Stephanie went to answer her father but he gave her a look that said the matter was closed for discussion and turned back to his morning tea and newspaper._

_All Stephanie could do was huff and lean back into her tall chair._

Thinking back on the event, Stephanie was certain that she was justified in her anger. Her father's words had been harsh and their meaning had been repulsive to her. But still, despite all of this, she loved her father. She knew that he cared about her and wanted what was best for her. Unfortunately, Stephanie and her father evidently disagreed on what exactly _was_ "best for her" when it came to men. She wasn't sure exactly what she wanted in a man, but she was confident that Spencer Hampton was _not_ it! She had thought Peter was the type of man she was after, but now she didn't know.

Her father was right about one thing though, Stephanie _was_ a romantic. She dreamed of a special Prince Charming, one who would be willing to ride in and save the day, while still being a divine dancer. She wanted someone kind and gentle; someone who could make her laugh, and wouldn't make her cry. But above everything else, she wanted a man who would just be _real_. Recently, as she had been daydreaming on her bed, staring up at the canopy overhead, she had discovered that she had never met a sincere person in her life. Oh she knew her family more intimately than anything else in the world and she loved them. But she knew that they were not totally sincere in their public lives. Stephanie knew about all the imperfections and flaws which they made strenuous efforts to keep hidden from the rest of the world. She loved her family, but even they were not sincere. She just wanted a man who would be honest with her; who wouldn't slip into "public-mode" and suppress his true feelings and personality for the sake of appearing perfect and "suitable". Stephanie was tired of being surrounded by people in "public-mode" all the time; never letting others in, never letting anyone see the tender underbelly known as honesty.

That was the problem, people just weren't honest anymore. Not the people she knew anyway. That was why she had sneaked away last night. She wanted to get away from her life and go in search of regular people…_real_ people. She had found her way into a pub that appeared to be active and lively. To tell the truth, it was the first time she had ever been in a place like that. The smoke was the first thing she noticed. It stung her eyes and made breathing uncomfortable. She coughed a few times as she had walked further into the establishment. And then, she had seen him. Up on stage was a very young, very attractive looking man. Before she knew it, she was up on stage assisting him in some incredible magic trick. And even sooner after that, he was buying her a drink at the bar.

He had been kind and funny. He had asked her questions about herself. Some she answered, others she avoided. But he didn't seem to dance around any issues. Sometimes, she was even shocked by his blatant opinions. His way of speaking was quite…colorful…and somehow his choice of words surprised and amused her. But he seemed so genuine, answering her questions with apparent frankness and he appeared to really be interested in what she had to say in return. Peter had been real! He was just the type of person she had come out to find! Their conversation was thoroughly enjoyable in all respects. As she went home, she had been certain that they both truly liked each other.

Then what on earth had happened between then and now? How could Peter undergo such an intense change in personality within a single day? The Peter she had just left in the pub was the complete opposite of the Peter she had enjoyed so much the previous night. He was cruel and stubborn, and so prejudiced! She would think that having money would be considered an asset to most men. But Peter seemed to be so repulsed by it…no, more than repulsed! He seemed to be utterly hostile towards her family background! It just didn't make sense.

Stephanie's thoughts grew quiet as she pondered this paradox. Her pace dwindled to a steady walk and her eyes studied the passing pavement under her feet. And, unbeknownst to her, five strides behind, two men followed her trail…and slowly began to pick up speed.

* * *

**Author's Note:** As a writer, I will commonly enter a chapter with a certain idea of where I want the chapter to go. I sort of have a Point A and Point B mapped out in my head before I ever start writing it. But on occasion, during the writing of a chapter, a character will just seem to do his or her own thing and take the chapter in a completely different direction. One of the best pieces of advice I have ever been told as a writer is to always follow your character, and stay true to where their personalities lead the story. So I just let this chapter run its own course. Hopefully you enjoyed it.


	8. Rethinking Hasty Words

Chapter Eight: Rethinking Hasty Words

After he finished the drinks, Newkirk continued to sit in the quiet booth, staring at the pub's burgundy and gold wallpaper. There would be other girls, right? Of course! There was always another girl in Peter Newkirk's future, and the new one was always an improvement on the last! Newkirk frowned. But could that happen now? After Stephanie? He had to admit, she was just about the most beautiful woman he had met, and her sense of humor was tops! If only she weren't so snooty. What Newkirk needed now was a nice, little blonde knock-out who had some street smarts and could take a joke.

As if he expected the pub to magically produce such a woman, Newkirk slowly panned the large room, seeing that there was no apparent match for him yet. He did, however, notice a rather young looking busboy sweeping the peanut shells into a pile on the floor. At least, that's what he was _supposed_ to be doing. But at the moment Newkirk looked at him, the boy leaned the broom against his chest and stuck his thumbs through his suspenders, eyeing Newkirk critically.

"Can I 'elp you?" Newkirk asked annoyed.

There was a pause as the young man, no older than seventeen, continued to watch Newkirk. "You drunk?" the busboy finally said.

Newkirk made a face, "Do I _look_ drunk to you?"

"That a 'no' then?"

"It's a 'no'!" Newkirk was quite annoyed with this kid. Obviously he hadn't been working in a pub long enough to tell when a patron had had too many. "Don't you 'ave some sweepin' to get to?" Newkirk asked, looking pointedly at the peanut shells on the ground.

The young man ignored Newkirk's question, clicking his tongue once and giving a single shake of the head. "There's gotta be somethin' else wrong with ya then," he concluded to no one in particular.

Newkirk squinted his eyes and shook his head slightly in surprised confusion, "You itchin' to reach your fat lip quota for the day or somethin', kid? What's the matter with you?"

The busboy hiked his shoulders, "I just don't get you is all."

"What's there to get?"

"You had the prettiest dame in the whole city sittin' 'ere with you, laughin' at your jokes, rubbin' your hands, and you sent 'er off cryin' like she was some sissy girl who's cat just got squashed by your boot."

Newkirk was caught off-guard by the kid's opinion, much less the language used to express it. All he could do was sit back and listen as the young man vented his cares.

"She was a fine lookin' creature. I 'aven't seen something put together that great since me dad finished workin' on that auto for the mayor. I'm tellin' you jack, if you ain't drunk…there's gotta be somethin' else wrong with you if you're gonna give up a bird like _that_ to sit alone in this crummy joint." The boy hiked his shoulders, "Maybe it's your eyes aren't workin' so good. Maybe your hair's on too tight and cutting off the blood from goin' to your brain or whatever you've got up there. I don't know. But there's something messed up with you." As he said these words, he grabbed his broom and once again began to sweep the dirty floor.

Newkirk stared at the boy as he continued sweeping. He watched him circle a few tables before Newkirk finally regained his composure. It wasn't the first time he'd been told off. But usually it was coming from someone he knew, Martin or Harry perhaps. But he had never had a tongue lashing from a total stranger before, especially not from some silly kid!

At first, Newkirk resented being called stupid. _'There's nothing wrong with me, mate. I've got a fine 'ead on me shoulders, thank you very much!'_ But then Newkirk looked back over to where Stephanie had been sitting only moments ago. He remembered the look on her face just before she stood to leave. He could still see the tears perfectly. He saw the chocolate melting, causing her eyes to shimmer and leaving narrow, wet streaks down her face. He had really hurt her.

For the first time, Newkirk felt ashamed. He had never hurt a girl like that before. He had never been so rude as to make one cry. Immediately, he realized what a heartless brute he had been.

He knew what he had to do. Throwing some wrinkled pounds on the table to pay for the drinks, Newkirk stood and exited the pub, wondering which way she had gone.

* * *

Stephanie was calmer now as she walked down the street. Her tears had mostly dried and she looked somewhat decent. She could wave down a cab now that her frustration had been marched out. Raising her hand (which still clutched the handkerchief she had used to blot her tears earlier) she waved towards the street, but there didn't appear to be many cabs out this evening. Suddenly, Stephanie gasped when a big hand clutched her raised wrist firmly.

"What a pretty hanky," the man said, pinching the fabric and pulling it out to have a better look.

"You!" Stephanie said. She recognized the man from the pub. He had been one of the men who tried to buy her a drink and then continued to stare at her afterward. She had felt uncomfortable then, but it was nothing _close_ to how uncomfortable she was feeling _now_, with his hand firmly grasping her wrist.

"Don't forget me, cutie!" a second man poked his head out from behind her and stared her up and down. He was the other man who had tried so hard to buy her a drink, she recognized his curly hair.

Now Stephanie was getting quite frightened. "Leave me alone!" she said, struggling against the big man's grip. "I just want to go home."

"Aww, you hear that Skip? The lady just wants to go 'ome," the big man repeated.

"Yeah Rodge, but this ain't a nice part of town. Too nice for a pretty girl to walk through alone," the little man replied.

"I hadn't planned on walking…" she said, looking towards the street, praying for a cab to pull up.

But the large man, Rodge, apparently hadn't listened to her, "You're absolutely right, Skip. She'll need an escort." At that, he started leading her off the main road and down a side alley. She struggled against his pull and had almost gotten away when she felt Skip at her back, shoving her along.

"Help! Somebody! Help m-" a hand flew over her mouth before she could say another word.

"Now, what are you doin' that for?" Rodge said. "We're just trying to 'elp you, you know. Wouldn't want you gettin' lost in this side of town."

"Say, that's a fine looking coin purse you've got there," Skip said. "Mind if I take a look?" Before she could respond, the curly haired man had her purse in his hands and was sifting through it. He clicked his tongue together. "Forty pounds? That's too much for a sweet young thing to be carryin' around with her." as he spoke, his hand moved the money into his own pocket.

Stephanie moaned in protest against Rodge's hand and struggled to get her hands loose. The strong man just laughed at her feeble attempts. Hearing his dark chuckles elicited some kind of boldness in Stephanie and she opened her mouth wide before biting down hard on his fingers. His head shot back and he screamed at the pain. She released his hand and grimaced when she realized that the sickening taste in her mouth was blood.

Rodge drew his red hand away from her as Skip erupted in laughter. Enraged now, Rodge turned towards Stephanie, screaming profanities at her. He grabbed her by the face and forcefully threw her back against a brick wall. Fortunately, it wasn't too far of a distance and Stephanie was able to maintain her footing. Still, she hit the wall hard and cried out at the pain. When she opened her eyes, she was terrified to see Rodge stalking towards her with an evil look in his eyes.

Then, just as he nearly reached her, a fist came out of nowhere and connected with Rodge's jaw. The big man went stumbling to the side, shaking his head to keep from blacking out before tripping over a cinder block.

Stephanie's heart leapt, "Peter!" she beamed, immediately followed by a gasp. "Look out!"

Skip suddenly threw his arms around Peter from behind. He held him by the throat with his arm, cutting off supply of air to the young magician's lungs. Newkirk grasped Skip's arms and struggled to loosen them. Finally, Newkirk bent his leg at the knee and swiftly brought his foot up to kick Skip in between the legs. The curly haired man released his hold and doubled over in pain, allowing Newkirk time to catch his breath.

"He's getting up, Peter!" Stephanie yelled.

Newkirk turned just in time to see Rodge about to swing a punch. He dodged it and threw one of his own. His fist hurt when it came in contact with the larger man's gut, but at least it did the job. Newkirk changed hands as he moved to clip the other man in the jaw.

But Rodge was quick to recover. He grasped Newkirk by the shirt collar and hit him squarely in the face twice. The second one sent Peter flying back against the alley wall and crumbling to the ground.

"No!" Stephanie cried, moving to kneel beside Peter and see that he was alright.

But Rodge caught her and pulled her roughly against himself. "I don't think so, missy," he growled, grabbing her face by the chin and forcing her to look at him. "You're mine now."

She panted as she glanced down at Peter desperately. But he wasn't moving. Rodge pinned her arms down at her sides and started to kiss her forcefully while she squirmed and shouted muffled screams of protest.

Newkirk flopped his head from side to side, groaning at the pain. He had to work hard just to get his eyes to open. Even when he finally had vision, he had to blink a few times before he could see clearly. After some effort, he could focus well enough to see where he was and what was happening.

When Newkirk saw that monster kissing Stephanie, something inside him snapped. He forced himself to get up, pushing past the pain and dizziness. He slammed his hands down on both Rodge's shoulders and jerked him away from his conquest. He spun the man around and forcefully clutched him by the shirt. He pushed the brute against the wall before Rodge could realize what was happening. Peter continued to slam the big man against the wall repeatedly.

"Don't! You! EVER! Touch! Her! Again!" Peter yelled as he emphasized each word with another slam against the wall. When he was done, Peter threw the other man to the side, satisfied that he would never forget this day.

Rodge collapsed to the ground and scrambled to get away. Finally making it to his feet, the big man scurried away like a scared animal. Newkirk turned to look at the other man, but it seemed as though Skip had run away some time ago. Seeing that both of his enemies had retreated, Peter turned to look at Stephanie, who had huddled in a little ball against the opposite wall. He stood looking at her, panting from the fight, with a bloody lip and knuckles slightly swollen. She clutched her knees tightly to her chest as she stared up at him. She looked so shaken, like a young, innocent child frightened by a storm.

He moved towards her and crouched in front of her. He touched her lightly on each arm. "Are you alright?" he asked, protectively looking her up and down for any blood or bruising. He reached up and felt the back of her neck and head.

"I…I think I am," she said, noticing how soft his touch was, quite different from the invading grip of Rodge just moments before. "I just hurt my head."

"Yeah…" he mused, touching the knot on the back of her head and wincing when he saw her wince. "Looks like you got a nasty bump back there. But it doesn't feel like it's bleeding." He withdrew his hand, not wanting to hurt her anymore. "It may be sore for a few days though," he said.

She nodded and reached up to feel the base of her neck. There had been a painful jerk when she hit the brick wall and her neck was now really sore because of it. She tried to tilt her head from side to side to see if it hurt. The pain wasn't too bad.

"But what's this?" Peter asked with concern. He reached to her lips and wiped his finger across the corner of her mouth. He held his finger up and examined the shiny red substance. "Blood?" he asked, looking closer at her mouth to see if her lip were busted.

"It isn't mine."

His eyebrows lowered in question.

"I bit him," she said.

Peter's eyes softened and he paused for a moment. Then he smiled softly, nodded his head and said, "Good for you."

He looked proud of her, and it made her smile. "Oh, but you're hurt!" she said, finally noticing the blood on his own mouth. She reached to retrieve the handkerchief that had fallen to the ground during the struggle.

"Oh, it's not that serious," Peter said as she held him by the chin and gingerly began dabbing his lip. She shushed him and he let her continue doctoring him. He stared solemnly at her until she made eye contact with him. She stopped dabbing his mouth when she saw the look in his eye. "I'm sorry, Stephanie. None of this would 'ave 'appened if I hadn't been an…idiot at the pub." He dipped his head in shame, "I never should 'ave said those things…and I _certainly_ should 'ave never let you leave that place alone."

She raised his chin once more so she could look at him. He had the sweetest look on his face, and his strong concern for her was evident in his expression. She smiled at him, "I forgive you, Peter," she said, "and thank you for saving me."

He slightly turned his head to the side, while keeping eye contact, and breathed in deeply. He wanted to say something else…but held it back. Instead, he dropped his head once more.

"So…" she began cautiously, "does this mean you're willing to give this a go?"

He looked back up at her. Slowly, he smirked. He let out a breathy laugh and said, "I guess so!"

She smiled back at him, glad to hear that was his answer.

"But we've got to be more careful," he stated firmly. "If anything, this just proves me point that you can't live in this sort of world. And I know that I couldn't make it in uptown."

Stephanie considered this, feeling her hand up and down his arm affectionately as she thought. "So what does that mean?"

"Well…" he thought about it for a moment, enjoying the way she tenderly touched his arm, "I guess…we'll just 'ave to find some sort of…middle area."

They both nodded at this plan. They would probably have to be creative about it, but somehow…they were going to make this work.

* * *

Hope you enjoyed this chapter! You must have known they were going to get back together! What kind of romance writer would I be if I let them break up after one meeting? The next chapter should be up soon. Feel free to review!


	9. Seeking Counsel

Chapter Nine: Seeking Counsel

When Newkirk returned to the tailor shop, Martin was in the storage room, gathering some material. The older man glanced up when he heard the door open. At once, he noticed the bloody and swelling lip, as well as the subtle bruising underneath the young man's eye.

"Well, well…" Marty exclaimed, grabbing Newkirk gently by the chin and causing him to turn his head from side to side. "What have we got here?"

"Nothin' time won't heal," Newkirk responded.

Releasing his tenant's face, Marty said, "I take it your date didn't go very well?"

"Whatever gave you that idea?" Newkirk answered sarcastically.

Martin chuckled as he turned to put down his arm-load of fabric, "Must have been one spirited girl to cause that kind of damage."

"This wasn't from the girl," Newkirk explained promptly, not wanting his friend thinking for a moment that he could take such a beating from a female. "We just ran into a bit of trouble afterwards is all."

"I see," Martin said, nodding his head. "Come on then. You can tell me about it while we get you cleaned up." He grabbed Newkirk by the arm and started leading him towards the main shop area.

Newkirk hastily pulled his arm away from the older man's grasp, refusing to go near the door. "Is Nina in there?" he asked, nodding towards the door. He didn't want the woman to see him in his current state. She'd have a heart attack and then she'd fuss over him and never feel he was safe going out alone anymore. He cared about the woman and wanted to protect her from unneeded worry.

Martin shook his head, "She's gone home for the night. I plan on joining her shortly so…" He made a gesture that said, 'come on,' before opening the door and leading the way into the front room.

Newkirk moved to one of the work benches and took a seat as Marty gathered some scrap fabric and a bowl which he filled with water. Soon, the tailor was at Newkirk's side, dipping some of the cloth into the water and saying, "So…what happened?"

Newkirk winced and pulled back slightly out of reflex when the cool cloth came in contact with his sore lip. The skin on his face felt tighter and less willing to accommodate the touches of the tailor. Newkirk tried to hold still as Martin cleaned the blood from his lips. He didn't enjoy the process at all since his wounds were still throbbing, but he at least knew that Marty would be gentle and would do a good job. After all, the faithful tailor had rendered such services to the ardent young man on at least two other nights before then.

Newkirk just clenched his eyes shut and tried to focus on answering Marty's question. "Stephanie—that's her name—when she left the pub, these two knuckle'eads must 'ave jumped her. By the time I came after her, I heard one of the blokes scream and I found 'em in an alley way. They were being pretty rough with 'er, so I stepped in."

"And you stepped in lip first, is that it?" the older man said as he continued to gingerly clean the dried blood from Peter's face.

Newkirk laughed softly, "Somethin' like that," he said with a smirk.

Martin chuckled as well, moving from the lip to the bloody knuckles. "What was she doing leaving the pub alone?" When Newkirk grew silent at this question, Martin glanced up at the young man's face. Newkirk was starring at his knuckles as Martin carefully wiped away the blood. His face bore a soft scowl and he looked ashamed. Clearly, he felt very guilty about something. Martin could do nothing except continue to watch the younger man until he finally spoke.

"We 'ad a fight at the pub," Peter admitted, knowing there was no sense in lying to Martin. "I said some stupid things and she left upset. I was mad, so I didn't go after her. It took a bit of time before I had me sense knocked back into me. " Newkirk shook his head, self anger building up inside him. "I should 'ave been there. They should 'ave never even got that far."

Fatherly concern covered Martin's face. He didn't even know the girl and he already felt protective of her. His cautious gaze studied Newkirk. "Did they…" he hardly wanted to ask what he was thinking, "…hurt her?"

Newkirk shook his head, obviously understanding what Martin was asking. "No," he said, "I got there before any of that. But she did get a rather nasty bump on her 'ead. Not to mention the poor thing was scared 'alf to death."

Martin went back to cleaning Newkirk's wounds, "Well, at least everything turned out alright in the end."

"It was all my fault, Marty," Newkirk said solemnly. "If I 'adn't said all that rubbish at the pub, none of it would 'ave 'appened in the first place."

Marty wagged a finger at his young friend. "If you hadn't shown up to defend her, it could have had a much worse ending for poor Stephanie. You mustn't forget that, my dear boy."

A mutual silence filled the room as Marty finished with Newkirk's right hand and began to doctor his left. He dipped the rag back into the water, causing the liquid in the bowl to turn a light shade of pink. "What was the argument about anyway?" Martin asked, clenching a fist and reducing the soaking rag to a dampened one.

Newkirk sighed with a tired shake of the head, "It doesn't matter now. I think we're goin' to try and work through it."

"So it's all resolved then?"

Newkirk nodded, "I think so."

"And you apologized for being cruel? Because a lady always deserves an apology when a man's made a ruddy fool of himself."

Again, Newkirk nodded, this time with a sigh, "I apologized."

"Good," the man said, sounding satisfied. Martin finished wiping Newkirk's hands clean of blood and dirt. He set the wet rag next to the bowl on the table and picked up some clean, dry strips of fabric to act as bandages. He grabbed Newkirk's right hand and gently began to wrap the swollen knuckles in the white linen.

"Marty?"

"Mhmm?"

Newkirk hesitated before asking, "What was it like when you first met Nina?"

The other man stopped his wrapping and looked up at Newkirk. Wise, bright blue eyes met searching, soft green ones. "What was it like?" Martin repeated.

"Yeah. What did you feel? What did you think?"

A soft smile graced Martin's face, as though he were grateful for an excuse just to think back to that day. "I thought…that she was the only girl in the church choir who actually looked breathtaking in that choir gown. The other girls looked simple…washed out even. But Nina…somehow…she made it look lovely."

Newkirk smiled. He was glad he asked the question. He hadn't wanted to seem sappy; but, seeing the older couple's happy relationship, Newkirk desperately wanted to know about how it all started.

"It wasn't love at first sight though, if that's what you're wondering," Marty continued. "Sure, I was smitten. But I didn't really know her. It wasn't until we became friends that I actually had the opportunity to fall in love. Her daddy hired me on to do some work on his fences. We became friends then and I got to know the sort of girl she really was. _That's_ when I went falling. She had a kind spirit and a gentle soul. She loved the Good Lord, and she loved the people she met. She was honest and kind…no man who knew her as I did could resist falling in love with her. Sure, Peter, you can love a woman's looks the first time you see them…but you can't truly love the woman 'til you know her."

Newkirk grew quiet after this, and Martin was evidently done talking as well. _'You can't truly love them 'til you know them.'_ Newkirk repeated this line in his head over and over again. He had never really considered it before, but the longer he thought about it now, the more Newkirk had the feeling that Marty was right. And if it were true that you couldn't _love_ someone until you knew them, wouldn't it also be true that you couldn't _hate_ them either? Maybe Newkirk was too quick to judge Stephanie. After all, he didn't really know her. All he knew was that she was wealthy…but was that really enough to hate her by?

The pair sat in silence as Marty finished wrapping both of Newkirk's hands. When it was all over, the silence was broken as the pair stood from the table and quiet remarks of, "Thanks, Marty," and, "You're welcome, my boy," softly spilled into the night air.

* * *

This one was a bit short as well, but I hope you enjoyed it nevertheless. Please leave a review if you'd like.

**Author's Note:** "Wise, bright blue eyes met searching, soft green ones." This line is somewhat of a tribute to a fellow writer and dear friend of mine on fanfiction, Annette-Rose (I'd encourage all of you to have a look at her work). So if you read that line and thought, "Man, Monker is a fantastic writer!" Then I feel it's prudent for me to inform you of the true creative talent behind that line, Annette-Rose. But isn't it a terrific line? I love it so much! I just had to use it!


	10. A Sister's Suspition

**Author's Note:** I do apologize for the delay in getting this chapter to you lovely people. There were a couple other issues that demanded my attention for a few days. But I hope you enjoy this now. There's a bit more of Stephanie in this chapter and it picks up right where chapter eight left off. Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter Ten: A Sister's Suspicion

Stephanie was cautious as she sneaked through her house. It wasn't particularly late, so everyone was still up and about, which made her task even more difficult. She had to find a way to get a change of clothes before her family saw her. At the present, she looked like a wreck. Her dress was filthy and slightly torn. Her face was dirty, her hair was ruffled, and she wasn't sure if she still had blood on her mouth from when she had bit that brute in the alley way.

Stephanie turned a corner and gasped, nearly running straight into one of her mother's ladies maids.

The young maid also gasped for she thought initially that Stephanie was an intruder. When her eyes focused and she recognized Stephanie, she whispered, "Lady Chambers! Good heavens, are you alright?"

"Yes, yes, Gloria. I'm quite fine," Stephanie whispered back. "I just need a change of clothes."

Gloria nodded as she looked the lady up and down, taking in the ghastliness of the once lovely garment. She wanted to say, _'and a good bath too,'_ but didn't because she of course knew that it would be improper for a lowly maid to say such a thing to one of the ladies of the house. Gloria just nodded. "I'll take care of it," she said, guiding Stephanie into a small broom closet to keep her out of sight.

"And Gloria…you won't tell anyone, will you?"

With a smile and a reassuring shake of the head, Gloria replied, "Of course not, mum."

Soon, Stephanie was sufficiently changed and clean, having been able to wipe the dirt from her face at the sink in the powder room. Looking fit to walk the halls, Stephanie headed towards her room. She made it up the stairs and was halfway down the hall when…

"Stephanie!"

Stephanie turned and smiled when she saw her sister approaching her. Vivian Chambers was the eldest of the two sisters. Her sense of style was advanced and her social life was never resting. She was stunningly beautiful, with rich dark hair and deep blue eyes. Even through puberty, her face never seemed to have blemishes. Like her sister, she was well educated and possessed talents in several of the socially acceptable art forms, such as painting and playing the cello. Vivian was also a perfectionist; permitting nothing short of perfection from herself and from others. Still, despite her sometimes overbearing personality she was a good sister and a good friend. "Hello Vivian," Stephanie greeted.

"My dear sister, where have you been? And good heavens! What happened to your makeup?"

Stephanie laughed. Of course Vivian would notice the lack of face powder! "I just washed my face," she said truthfully.

"I have been looking for you all evening. Where have you been?"

Stephanie hesitated. She didn't want to be dishonest, but she also knew that it was extremely unlikely that Vivian would approve of where Stephanie had been. "Out," she answered simply, and then swiftly turned to head towards her room.

Her sister was fast on her heels. "Now hold on one moment!" Vivian said, chasing her little sister into her bedroom and closing the door. "Where exactly is 'out'?"

Stephanie sat at her makeup counter and began to reapply the cosmetics. "You know," she said, "…out."

Vivian grinned and shook her head, "No, no, dear sister. I'm not letting you off with an answer like that! Come on now, tell me where you went."

Stephanie sighed, "To a place you've probably never heard of, and I'm _certain_ you've never been."

Vivian eyed her sister suspiciously, "So, you want to play with riddles, do you?"

Stephanie smiled coyly in the mirror. Already, she could tell that her sister was never going to give her a moment's peace until the riddle had been solved.

"Alright then," Vivian started, moving to stand directly behind Stephanie and placing a hand on each shoulder. "Were you alone?"

'_Dash it all!'_ Stephanie lamented inwardly. Only two questions in, and Vivian was already on the right train of questioning. Her face must have betrayed her thoughts.

Vivian's eyebrows rose, "You_ weren't_ alone."

Straightening her shoulders, Stephanie replied, "I may have had company."

Now, a knowing smile was added to Vivian's increasingly intrigued face. "Was this company a boy?" She stressed the last word with sing-song glee.

'_I'd hardly call him a boy,'_ thought Stephanie, but outwardly, she said only, "Really now, Viv. Is all this fuss really necessary?"

"Of course it's necessary!" Vivian declared, springing back from the chair and holding out her arms in a happy spin. "My sister, the loner, the reader, the I'm-content-to-just-stay-home-and-paint girl is finally getting out there and meeting young gentlemen! I'm just glad to hear that you shan't become an old maid!"

"'Old maid'?" Stephanie repeated. "I'm not even twenty years yet! And anyway, isn't it a bit early to have notions of matrimony? I only just met him yesterday."

"Ahh, but look at this face," Vivian said, turning her sister's head towards the mirror, "Such beauty! Honestly my dear, how long can you expect a sensible man to go before falling hopelessly in love?"

Stephanie had the modesty to blush and lower her gaze.

Vivian smiled and straightened. "So who is he?"

Stephanie remained quiet.

"Come on then. Who is he? Do I know him?"

Stephanie smiled and shook her head; they were back to the guessing game. "I shouldn't think so," she said simply.

Vivian looked thoughtful, tapping her chin and peering at the ceiling. "Hmm…if I guess him right, would you tell me?"

Stephanie laughed, "_If_ you guess…"

"Well then…Do I know his mother? Or sister perhaps?"

"I wouldn't know."

"Hmm…" the older sister trailed around the room, gazing at her surroundings as if she expected helpful suggestions to come from the bedroom furniture. "Does he hold a profession?"

"Yes."

"Is it in…banking?"

Stephanie smiled, "No."

"Is it in…law?"

"No."

"Medicine?"

"No, not medicine."

"Politics perhaps? No, of course not. I would have heard of him. Unless…is he a foreigner?"

"No, I believe he's from here in London."

Vivian stopped and looked at her sister, "the fashionable side?"

"I don't know his actual address."

Vivian considered this information with a nondescript expression before getting back to her questioning. "Could he be an athlete? I know there was a cricket game last night that commanded quite a lot of attention from the public."

"No, he's not an athlete. But you're getting closer."

"An entertainer then?" Vivian asked hopefully.

Finally, Stephanie was able to nod. "Yep, entertainment is right!"

"Hmm…and I've not heard of him? Can't be too terribly successful then…" Vivian looked disapproving of this and Stephanie felt a little self-conscious. "Well, is he an actor in those motion pictures?"

"No," Stephanie chuckled. She was enjoying seeing her sister work so hard to guess Peter's profession. It was fun to know something that Vivian didn't.

Vivian sighed. "I feel like I'm not getting anywhere. Perhaps another route. How tall is he?"

Stephanie thought about it, she was a terrible judge of height. "Five…nine? Perhaps?"

Vivian nodded, "That's a good height. It means you'll have to step on your tip toes to kiss him fully. It's a good distance."

Again, Stephanie's cheeks reddened at her sister's words. The thought of kissing Peter sent a chill up her spine.

Vivian noticed her sister's blush, punctuating Stephanie's youthful virtue. She knew that her little sister was still young and had very little experience with the opposite sex. This knowledge spawned the next question as she continued to walk idly around the room. "How old is he?"

Again, Stephanie had to pause to consider an answer, "I'm not quite sure. Older than I, but not by much, I'd think."

"What color are his eyes?"

"Green."

Vivian stopped in her tracks and eyed Stephanie playfully at a sideways glance. "You came up with _that_ one rather quickly, dear sister," she teased.

Stephanie noticed her error and tried to redeem it, "They could be blue. I'm not sure."

"Oh, you sounded _quite_ sure the first time. And only after a day! This young man must be special. Or, in the very least, those eyes must be…"

Stephanie decided not to answer, already feeling rather embarrassed. She was always the sensible one, and Vivian was always the sister who abandoned her heart to any man who had the thought to smile at her. But Stephanie's heart was always guarded, guarded so as to avoid the growth of the calluses she already saw developing on her sister's wounded heart. Stephanie had never allowed herself to become so smitten with a man until she met Peter. But even now, at the mere remembrance of those pale green eyes, Stephanie's breathing deepened and something in the base of her back tingled with soft, irritating pleasure.

The questions continued until Vivian finally gave up hope of guessing who her sister's mystery man was. She had spent nearly an hour at her guessing game and had so far only established that he was a London entertainer of some sort, who seemed to have a good sense of humor, was evidently quite handsome, and his name began with the letter P. But Stephanie didn't seem to know where he lived, anything about his family history, or where he attended University.

It was nearly bedtime whenever Vivian finally left the room, investigator ambitions abandoned for the time being. As Stephanie changed clothes and settled into her canopy bed, she began to think about how her family would react to Peter when they met him. Surely, now that Vivian knew she was seeing somebody, Stephanie couldn't keep it a secret from her family for very long. It wasn't necessarily that she felt she _had_ to keep him a secret. After all, it wasn't as though she was ashamed of him. But she knew what kind of man her family would expect her to choose. They expected someone well established, with plenty of money and a good family name. Peter was a good man. He was charming and witty, but he wasn't her family's idea of a "fine match".

Stephanie sighed. Maybe she was worrying about nothing. She had only known Peter for two days and it could be that this relationship wouldn't even progress to a serious depth. And even if it did, she could cross that bridge when she came to it. Until then, until she knew that what she had with Peter was special, there was so reason to go upsetting her family by telling them about him just yet. She would just wait, and see where this thing led.

* * *

**Author's Note:** When I first posted this chapter, there was a slight mistake in it. Stephanie described Peter as being 1.8 meters tall, using of course the metric system. I origionally wrote it by saying "Five foot nine" but my one of my proof readers called me out on it and said that the English use the metric system. However, shortly after this was posted, El Gringo Loco messaged me and informed me that the British did not use the metric system until the late 60's. So, I've changed it now and gone back the the five foot nine line in order to keep the story more accurate. I hope it didn't throw too many of you off.


	11. Breakfast and Pawnshops

Chapter Eleven: Breakfast and Pawnshops

The next morning, Newkirk gingerly removed the wraps from his knuckles. His expression was grave as he examined the damage. The skin was still an angry red tone, but the wounds had begun to scab during the night. They would heal soon. Still, he didn't reapply the wrapping. The bandages just drew attention to his hands, and if he didn't have anything on them, maybe Nina wouldn't see his wounds when he went up to breakfast. A quick glance in an empty silver bowl told him that his facial wounds had also healed during the night. The swelling had gone down a lot, but light bruising was beginning to take place. It was still pretty mild though…maybe she wouldn't notice.

When he reached the main workshop, Marty, Harry, and Nina were already there. The tailor was bent over a pattern for a new suit, measuring the dimensions with one hand while the other brought a piece of toast to his mouth. Harry dipped his toast in a bowl of some sort of soup while Nina finished dishing out a bowl for Peter. "Good morning," the tired magician greeted.

"Morning," came the group reply.

He took a seat and was soon eating. Harry leaned over and said quietly, "You think you can find a time to run by the pawn shop today?"

Newkirk remembered the partially successful day they had had yesterday. They had lifted four wallets and one pocket watch within a few hours. The money was extracted as soon as they got home and it was then split evenly between the two. What was left over was set aside to pay Marty his rent money. But they still had four empty wallets now, not to mention that pocket watch. Newkirk and Harry usually went to a local pawn shop after they had accumulated enough merchandise to sell off the wallets and whatever was left over from the theft. The billfolds weren't usually worth very much, but it was more than they would be worth sitting under Newkirk's bed.

He nodded as he sipped his soup, "Yeah, I'll have time for that today."

Harry nodded his head and sat farther back in his seat. "So," he said, raising his voice from its earlier tone, "How did your date go last night?"

Peter noticed the way Nina's attention was piqued with that question. He shared a knowing look with Martin before shrugging slightly and saying, "All right, I guess."

"Well, where did you take her?" Nina asked.

"We went to Allen's pub."

Nina looked discouraging, "Now, Peter, you could have found a nicer place to take a young lady, couldn't you?"

"It was fine."

"Well, what'd you do after that?" Harry asked.

Again, Newkirk looked at Marty. The older man just gave a look as to say, _'Don't ask me.' _"We both 'eaded 'ome after that." That was truthful enough. He didn't happen to mention that she was attacked on the way. That information could go unmentioned for now.

Harry eyed his friend suspiciously. He knew Newkirk was a pretty private person, especially when it came to personal affairs. But Newkirk was also pretty haughty when it came to his dealings with girls. It was rare for Newkirk to remain so prudent in his date descriptions. Harry could tell he was holding something back; but he also knew how strong his friend's resolve could be, so he knew it wouldn't do to press the issue. "So are you goin' to keep seein' her?"

Peter nodded, "Yeah, I think so."

Nina beamed at this information. "How wonderful! What's her name, Peter?"

Newkirk hesitated slightly. He glanced at yesterday's paper, which was now in a pile of scrap paper, waiting for its turn to be used as tinder for the small fire place. He made a mental note of trying to rescue her picture before that happened. "Stephanie," he said at last.

"Stephanie…what a lovely name!" Nina exclaimed, "Does Stephanie have a last name?"

Newkirk looked up at the woman. "She does," he said, "But I'm not about to tell you what it is."

Nina's expression was shocked, "Why ever not?"

Newkirk gave her a knowing smile, "Because I don't think I want the wedding invitations drawn up just yet."

* * *

Newkirk entered the pawnshop to a flash of blinding light. Instinctively, his hand came up to shield his face. "'Ey! What's that for?" He demanded, blinking hard with a scowl.

From behind the desk, the shop owner lowered the camera. "Oh! Sorry about that sir," he said with a certain level of enthusiasm. "Just got it in and wanted to give it a test before I sold it."

He held the camera out for Newkirk to see more clearly; although, with the green and gray spots dancing all across his vision, it wasn't likely that Newkirk would be able to see anything clearly for a few minutes.

The emphatic shop owner continued, "It's practically a new model. See, it has a latch built in right here to hook the flash handle into. That way, the bulb is stationary and you always know that the light is coming from the right angle. Ingenious isn't it?"

Newkirk nodded his head just to get the man to shut up. "Brilliant," he said unenthusiastically.

"It's a fine piece of equipment. I'd be willing to give you a good deal on it if you're interested."

"I'm not really the picture takin' type," Newkirk said shortly.

"Uhhu…" the pawnbroker noted his customer's irritated demeanor. Still, he had yet to meet a client who he couldn't break into making some sort of purchase. "Of course, sir," he said, putting down the camera and clasping his hands together over the glass countertop. "What can I do for you?"

Newkirk reached into the pocket of his black jacket and pulled out the wallets. "I'm here to increase your merchandise." As he spoke, Newkirk put the wallets on the counter, spreading them out with one hand so that each one lay flat against the glass.

The pawnbroker looked at the wallets and then at Newkirk. The thief held the gaze steadily, daring the shop owner to inquire as to the origin of the commodities. The other man wisely turned back to the wallets and picked each of them up individually. He stretched them apart and eyed the wear of the leather. Most of them were in pretty good shape. All of them were empty. "For these…" he said, placing the last billfold back onto the counter. He leaned over them and shook his head as he came up with a figure. "I'd give you…sixteen pounds."

"Sixteen? Any one of these would cost at _least_ that in the stores. I've got four of 'em here and you're offerin' sixteen for the lot?"

"That's my price."

Newkirk sighed and stepped backward a bit. "Alright," he said, reaching back into his pocket. "What about this?" He pulled out the pocket watch and held it out to the pawnbroker.

The man applied his glasses before taking the watch and dangling it in front of his own face. He examined the back and chain. It wasn't an authentic gold, but it was a good imitation and the chain showed no rust. He tested the dial and held the face to his ear to listen to the ticking. When he was done, he set the watch down next to the wallets.

"For all this…" he said, waving a hand over the merchandise. "You're looking at thirty pounds."

"I want forty."

"Forty? For this? No."

"Thirty-five, then."

The pawnbroker flipped one of the wallets open and studied it again. Reaching up to scratch his neck, the man nodded, "Okay, I'll give you thirty-five."

Newkirk nodded in agreement and turned to look at the rest of the shop, leaning against the countertop while the shop owner scooped the merchandise into a small bin and began to draw up the receipt.

The shop resembled every other pawn shop he had been to before (he didn't like to use the same one multiple times in a row). Musical instruments hung across the walls and windows, everything from accordions to single zither, with a large population of brass instruments in the middle. A stand-up easel stood in the corner next to several bird cages of various sizes, one of which actually housed a green parrot. There were also several articles of clothing such as shirts, boots, kilts, and even a full Royal Air Force uniform, but Newkirk's gaze passed over these items fleetingly. He noticed that there was a large supply of cookware as well: pots, pans, cutlery and baking sheets lay across large tables, dwindling in size as they stretched closer towards the back wall.

Newkirk's eyes landed on a sewing machine in the corner. Interest piqued, he shoved against the countertop with his hip and mildly stepped forward. He bent to examine the machine. "Does this thing work?" he asked turning his head slightly towards the front counter but remaining to peer at the mechanism closely.

He heard a distant, "It sure does. And it's marked at a reasonable price too!"

Newkirk looked at the price tag. It read, "£200.00". _'Huh…reasonable price indeed.'_ Newkirk thought scornfully. As visions of Martin's hands working skillfully under that needle vanished, Newkirk straightened once again to a standing position and rejoined the pawnbroker at the counter.

"Here you are, thirty-five pounds…" he counted off the bills into Newkirk's hand and then placed the receipt on the top. He looked up at Newkirk and smiled, "And if you come back after I've done the developing, I'll even let you keep your photograph."

Newkirk shoved the money into the pocket of his black jacket and said, "No thanks," before turning and heading out the door.

As he walked home, Newkirk's mind drifted back to Stephanie. They were supposed to meet for another date tomorrow night. Hopefully it would go better than the last. He was determined to make it so. His talk with Marty had done a lot to encourage Newkirk, and humble him. He knew that he had been too harsh on her before. _'I really can be a prig sometimes,'_ he confessed to himself. Stephanie wasn't to blame for her family's fortune. And did it really matter that much? Were all the rich exactly the same? No, most likely they weren't. After all, were all the poor the same? Newkirk could attest against that. He wasn't very well off financially, but he was not morally bankrupt to match. He still had hopes and dreams. He still tried to treat people with kindness. He laughed at himself, _'At least when I'm not chewin' their 'eads off for bein' wealthy!'_ he chided.

But he would make it right. He would apologize for hurting Stephanie, and he would make it up to her. Angry as he was at her, it had still really affected him when he saw her crying. And he was affected once again when he saw her attacked. Something about this girl just seemed to really pull at his heart strings. He had a desire to protect her…to get to know her…to care for her the way he saw Marty and Nina care for each other. Yes, he would make this thing work, and he'd do it right.

* * *

**Author's Note:** In the description of the pawnshop, I mention a bird cage housing a single green parrot. That was actually a reference to the movie _Paulie_. I saw that movie when I was very young and loved it! The movie itself unfortunately has no connection to Hogan's Heroes, though. Until now, I guess!

**Canon Inspiration for this chapter:** Ironically, Newkirk's eyes passed fleetingly over the uniform he would wear for years and years during the war. And he also told the pawnbroker that he wasn't the "picture takin' type" when later, working under Hogan, Newkirk would take countless pictures of Nazi battle plans and blueprints.


	12. Our World

**Author's Note:** I'm warning you now Tirathon (and others like you), I classified this story as a romance for a reason. Well, this chapter gets into that a bit more. But don't worry. I always endeavor to keep things in good taste. Nothing racy or suggestive. It's just not my style. Anyway, on to the chapter!

* * *

Chapter Twelve: Our World

The next night, when Stephanie reached the pub, Peter was waiting for her out front. She smiled at him as she approached. When she was close enough, she reached up and touched his face where he was once swollen and bloody. "You're healing," she said. "How does it feel?"

He gave her a soft smile and reached up to remove her hands from his face. "It feels fine," he said as he held her hands in his and lowered his gaze to study them. "Not much harm done," he said softly.

Stephanie too looked at their hands. She noticed the soft scabbing around his knuckles. Knowing that he got those wounds defending her, somehow made her feel special, like she was worth fighting for. She wondered briefly if anyone else in her life would be willing to fight for her. But she only allowed the thought to mingle momentarily for fear of becoming depressed, and she quickly turned her attention back to Peter and said, "Well, shall we go?" She started to move towards the pub but Peter held her hands with a strong but gentle grasp, keeping her from leaving.

"I was thinking…" he started, still looking at their hands. Then his eyes lifted and he looked at her with those soft green orbs. "I was thinking that we could go somewhere else today."

She raised a gentle eyebrow, "Oh? Is there anywhere in particular you have in mind?"

He grinned at her boyishly and nodded his head.

She grinned back. Yes, this was the Peter she remembered and had missed so dearly. She nodded, "Well, alright then!" she said happily.

His smile broadened as he released one of her hands and began to lead her down the sidewalk.

They walked idly down the lane, passing shops, restaurants, and other couples. Somewhere along the way, they looped through each other's arms, assuming the arm-in-arm position which they had enjoyed so nicely the night of their very first meeting, when Peter had walked her to her cab. Now as they strolled down the street, they looked happy; like a young couple just enjoying the twilight air together.

Their path was so aimless that Stephanie wondered if they even had a predetermined destination. Perhaps this walk was the date idea to which Peter had alluded earlier. But then he surprised her as he pulled slightly on her arm and caused her to turn with him down an alleyway. "Peter…where are we going?" she asked.

"You'll see," he said. Then he disconnected himself from Stephanie's grasp and went to stand under a fire escape that stretched vertically across one of the buildings. With a rather impressive leap, he reached up and grabbed hold of the ladder and pulled it down for easy access. Then he turned towards Stephanie. With one hand he grasped the side of the ladder, and with the other he gestured for her to come to him.

She walked towards him and stared up the fire escape. "Up there?" she asked with quiet apprehension.

"Uhhuh," he said with a nod. "It's perfectly safe. Look, I'll go first." Then he started scaling the ladder. Soon, he was at the first landing and peering down over the iron railing. "See? Piece of cake!"

Stephanie approached the ladder and gulped. As hard as it was to believe, she had never climbed a ladder before. There had just never been a reason for her to in the past. But she wasn't about to be a chicken now. Especially not now that Peter was already up there and obviously felt excited about his plan. So she climbed the ladder with a look of determination on her face.

When she reached the top, Peter offered a hand to help her step onto the platform. Peter kept holding her hand and watching her face until he felt she had gained her equilibrium again. Then he turned and started walking up the narrow steps of the fire escape.

"Where are we going exactly?" she asked, following him step by step. She had visions of them entering one of these apartments through a window, and she wasn't terribly excited about that prospect.

"Up," he stated as they climbed.

Stephanie just rolled her eyes and continued the march up the stairs. She counted the flights as they passed them. One…two…three… Eventually, they made it to the top. Peter helped her step onto the solid surface of the flat rooftop and then took her by the hand and led her to a certain spot on the roof. They passed several large smoke stacks before Stephanie finally saw it.

On the floor a few feet away, a large blanket was spread out to cover the rough surface of the roof floor. On either side of the blanket was a handheld lantern. On the blanket itself was a large picnic basket and two plates. In between the plates was a small candleholder with a single, unlit candle in its middle. Stephanie gasped and just stared at the arrangement.

Peter quietly watched her face, waiting to see her reaction. He was pleased with the way her face lit up as she stared with a gaping mouth at the picnic. "Do you like it?" he asked redundantly.

She smiled widely. "Peter, it's beautiful!" she responded, "But what exactly is this place?"

Peter hiked his shoulders as he turned to look at the picnic setting again. "Well," he said, "We said we needed to find somewhere to meet that wasn't your world, and it wasn't mine. So…this is our world."

She beamed at him and touched his face gently with her hand. "I love it!" She said, leaning in and placing a soft kiss on his cheek. "And this is perfect."

Peter was glad to hear that. He was particularly proud of himself for coming up with this. It was probably one of the best date ideas he had ever had. It would have to go in the "Newkirk book of success".

The sun was starting to set and they were losing light quickly. Peter was glad for it because he knew that heat had rushed to his cheeks when she kissed him, and he would hate for a girl to see him blush. He just cleared his throat and smiled at her saying, "I'm glad you like it."

As Peter stepped forward and knelt by the basket, Stephanie took the opportunity to enjoy the view. What a sight it was from the rooftops of London just at twilight! At six flights from ground level, Stephanie could see over almost every building for miles! The giant setting sun painted the sky in brilliant shades of purple, pink, and orange; and the surrounding clouds swirled around and amid the striking colors in lazy loops and undulated waves. The buildings and dwelling places below displayed tiny twinkling lights that told stories of the lives and families within. The breeze was chilled, but not quite cold, not yet anyway. The gentle wind kissed Stephanie's face as it flowed past, and it caused the loose blond hairs to dance rhythmically around her face. From this place…the world seemed truly breathtaking.

Stephanie felt two arms snaking around her waist and soon, Peter's chin was resting on her shoulder as he too admired the view. "It's beautiful, isn't is?" she asked.

"Mhmm," she felt him nod. "And it's not the only one," he said, turning his head and placing a small kiss just below her jaw line.

She smiled and couldn't hold back the shiver that shot up her spine. She turned in his embrace and put her arms up around his neck. They held each other that way for a few moments, each knowing that this moment was made of magic.

Peter stared into Stephanie's chocolate brown eyes. The wind, now at her back, blew wild strands of hair into her face. She blinked and flinched as they hit and then were blown away again. But her eyes never left his. He smiled at that soft expression of determination. He lifted his hands and cupped her head on either side, holding down her rebellious hair so she could see clearly. His thumb stretched down to sweep over the smooth skin of her temple. "Stephanie, I…" he didn't know the words to use. He was never used to asking, but somehow, with Stephanie, he felt he must. He looked at her seriously, "…I want to kiss you," he finally said.

She subconsciously wetted her lips and then smiled timidly. "Okay," was all she could think to say.

And then Peter slowly dipped his head, and pulled her closer until they touched. The kiss was soft and still. He could feel her hands trembling at the base of his neck, so he guessed that her experience was somewhat limited. With that in mind, Peter was cautious in his treatment of that first kiss. He kissed her with smooth, tender movements, keeping the pressure of his grasp light on her face so that she could pull away at any moment. But she didn't pull away. She stayed in the kiss and made soft, utterly feminine sounds in the back of her throat that screamed at everything masculine within Peter. But he kept the kiss soft and then voluntarily pulled away after a few moments.

He breathed in deeply and then opened his eyes. He watched her face as she took a few seconds longer to open her eyes. When she did, they locked automatically with Peter's and they stared at each other once again. The look on her face was completely placid, like there was no action that could have felt more natural. She looked so adorable that Peter couldn't help but smile at her reaction. "How was that?" he asked teasingly.

She too smiled and she raised her eyebrows high, "That was…" she shook her head slowly, searching for the word, but finding nothing. Then she looked at him again and noticed his big grin. Boy, was _she_ inflating his ego! She hiked her shoulders, "It was fine," she said, trying to make it sound nonchalant.

He chuckled at her obviously faked reply. "Well, give me some time to study and I'll see if I can't improve to your…satisfaction."

Her cheeks grew red and she giggled softly.

"Come on," he said with a grin, "The food'll get cold soon."

Taking her by the hand, he led her back to the picnic area and helped her take a seat on the blanket. He had lit both the candle and the lanterns while her back was away. He sat opposite Stephanie and began to unload the picnic basket. He used a fork to dish chunks of roast onto each plate. Then, opening a small jar, he covered the meat with delicious smelling gravy.

"Oh, Peter! This looks lovely. Did you make it?"

Peter reached into another small container and dished out several stabbings of cooked asparagus. "No," he admitted, "a friend of mine put this together." And Nina had been absolutely thrilled to do it. It was a nicer meal than what Peter typically ate, but Nina had been so excited about the date that she was determined to make it memorable for the young couple. The woman left no room for argument. It simply had to be roast. She even convinced him to take along a small bottle of champagne. He hadn't wanted to because he knew he had no way of paying her back. Champagne, no matter how cheap, was just something that Newkirk really couldn't afford. But she insisted that he take it and said that the drink, in moderation, "gives you courage and fizzes away your inhibitions."

"Oh, well, whoever it was, they did a wonderful job," Stephanie stated, looking pleasingly towards the meal.

"Well, I helped," he said.

"Oh really? How so?"

Peter smiled, "I stayed out of the way."

Stephanie laughed as Peter placed a single bread roll on each plate.

"Honestly, I'm not much good in the kitchen," he admitted truthfully. "I can make scrambled eggs, with a bit of ham and cheese mixed in…when I have the fixin's that is. But it's really the only thing I can make that tastes any good."

He finished by pouring the drinks and then sitting back. He raised his glass to her and she followed suit. "To you Stephanie," he said, tipping his glass a little further into the air.

"And to us."

Then the soft clink of two glasses touching echoed softly off the brick chimneys as the distant sun slipped lower beyond the horizon.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Isn't there some sort of pattern that Mary Sues always seem to get on the roofs of places? I thought about that just before I posted this. Hopefully this chapter won't condemn poor Stephanie to Mary Suedom. I can promise, as the writer, I will fight against it! With every key on my laptop, I will fight against it! Mark my words! Haha! Anyway, feel free to review.

**Another Author's Note:** The line about champange "fizzing away one's inhibitions" was taken from a quote in the WWII movie _Mosquito Squadron_.


	13. Getting to Know You

**Author's Note:** Our journey through this little story was regrettably interrupted by the writer's "regular" life. Don't you hate it when that happens? I'm sorry it's taken so long to get this chapter posted. Please forgive me and, above all else, enjoy it now that it's uploaded!

* * *

Chapter Thirteen: Getting to Know You

The light was quick to vanish, and soon the rooftop couple was eating between the soft glows of the two lit lanterns. The conversation was relaxed as it occurred between bites of tender beef and sips of champagne that tingled all the way down the throat.

"So," Peter began, chopping his asparagus in half with the side of his fork, "you know that I like magic, but I don't know what you enjoy doing."

Stephanie put her glass down and picked up her fork again, "That's a good point. Well, I enjoy reading…and I paint."

Peter seemed genuinely interested in this, "Really? What do you paint?"

Stephanie shrugged, "It depends on my mood. Sometimes it's objects or scenery, places I've been or, sometimes, places I dream of seeing."

"Do you ever paint portraits?" Peter asked, trying to be polite in remembering to use his napkin.

Stephanie laughed, "No! Faces are too complicated! I stay away from painting people as best I can. My aunt once commissioned me to paint a picture of her mother for her birthday and it was awful! I don't think that side of the family has ever forgiven me." She laughed softly as the thought drifted away. "Eyes, I can do; nose, maybe; and I honestly don't think there is a way to paint teeth without making the person look demented."

Peter almost had champagne squirting out of his nose when he heard that. But he was able to contain himself and just laugh quietly. He was glad he asked that question. It was obvious that she was passionate about this hobby. When someone loves an activity, their zeal for the subject just comes shining forth whenever they start talking about it. And that was the case with Stephanie and painting. It was also nice that this was something to which Peter could relate slightly. He was somewhat of an artist himself from time to time, and he knew how frustrating some facial features could be.

"I agree. And ears are difficult too," he said.

"Oh,_ aren't_ they though? But you didn't tell me you were a painter."

"Well, I'm not. I draw. You know, little sketches and things. But sometimes I draw the people I know. It's all mindless, you know? And I'm the sort of bloke that always needs to be doin' somethin' with me hands. So I'll just sit down and draw. It's easy, it's fun, and it doesn't require a lot of thinking."

Stephanie smiled thoughtfully, "Exactly, that's just how I feel! That's the beauty of art, I think. You just _do_ it!"

Peter nodded agreeably.

"So you draw people often?" she asked.

"Yeah, I used to draw me sister a lot, before I moved out. Now, I draw me friends. Course none of 'em know I do it," he said with a grin, "If they did, they'd probably want to see it, and I don't like showin' off my stuff. I draw for me, not for anyone else."

"Would you ever want to draw me?" Stephanie asked. When he looked up at her, she playfully struck a pose.

He breathed a quiet laugh and shook his head softly. "I couldn't do it," he admitted.

"Oh, come now, I couldn't be that difficult could I?" She tried a different pose and grinned at him.

Peter looked away and continued to shake his head. "Stephanie," he said, "You're beautiful…too beautiful, in fact."

She dropped her pose and looked at him questioningly.

He continued, "If I were to draw you…" He shook his head solemnly, "I'd never get it right. And I'd _hate_ myself…if I couldn't do you justice."

Stephanie was stunned by the unexpected flattery. She was even more stunned by the serious tone in which it was given. Not quite knowing how to respond, both Stephanie and Peter grew quiet after that. They both turned their attention back onto the meal, enjoying the roast before it got too cold.

After a while, Stephanie asked out of the clear blue, "How tall are you, Peter?"

He gave her a strange look, "Five foot nine. Why?"

"Really? Then I got it right!" Then she looked at his strange expression and chuckled, realizing what an odd question that must have been. "My sister asked about it and I just had to take a guess." Then she remembered what her sister's response had been. Stephanie took a moment to try to recall if she had stepped on her tip toes when she kissed Peter a few moments ago. She couldn't remember. Her stance wasn't exactly at the forefront of her mind at that particular point in time. Oh well, there would be other times for sure. She tried to repress a small grin for fear that Peter would somehow be able to read her thoughts if he saw it. But he wasn't paying attention.

"Why does your sister want to know 'ow tall I am?" he asked confusedly.

She grinned again, this time not masking it from Peter. "She was trying to guess who you were."

"You haven't told 'em about me?"

Stephanie realized the potentially insulting nature of what she had just revealed. Immediately she regretted saying it, and only shortly after that immediate did she try to rectify the slip. "Well, they know now! At least…Vivian does. She knows that I'm seeing someone, that is. She just doesn't know very much about you." Then a thought occurred to her, "I don't suppose you've told your family and friends who _I_ am, have you?"

He looked away, embarrassed. She had caught him. No, he hadn't told his friends who Stephanie really was. They knew little about her other than her first name. He readjusted himself uncomfortably under her stare.

His body language answered her question to her satisfaction. "Then it seems this whole affair is private on all fronts," she observed.

He looked ashamed, "Are you upset?"

"I suppose I don't have the right to be."

"But are you?" he pressed.

She put his searching eyes to rest when she reached across the blanket and grabbed hold of his hand to give it a little squeeze. "No," she said, "I'm not upset."

He looked reassured as her hand retreated. "So, why do we both feel the need to keep each other a secret?" he asked.

"Well, like you said, we come from different worlds. I suppose those worlds just aren't prepared for a pair like us yet."

They grew quiet for a few brief moments until Peter asked, "So…did your sister sound like she liked me?"

Stephanie chuckled, "She was definitely intrigued! It was like an interrogation scene from those Sherlock Holmes novels. She was actually quite intimidating at times. I think she gets it from our father."

"Ahh, yes, the Duke," Peter said.

For a moment, Stephanie wondered if the subject of her father would spark a hateful mood in Peter again. But his demeanor seemed to remain civil.

"Tell me about 'im and your mum. What are they like?"

Stephanie raised her eyebrows and inhaled deeply. Peter didn't understand how complex a question that actually was. "Well," she began, "My father is…a good man. He always wants what's best for me and Vivian. And he takes his work very seriously."

Peter remained quiet, sensing there was something Stephanie wasn't telling him. With subtle raise of the eyebrow, he encouraged her to continue.

"He just…" She sighed, "…I know my father loves me. It's just…"

Concern entered Peter's eyes as he watched her try to arrange her thoughts. Clearly she was conflicted by something, and Peter's unease grew with each passing second until she spoke again.

"He just doesn't express his love in all the conventional ways, I guess. I suppose that's what I'm saying."

Peter watched as she turned towards her last piece of asparagus. He waited for her to say something else, but she didn't. "How does he express it, then?" he asked quietly.

Her chin quivered slightly as she shook her head softly, still carefully staring at the green rod at the end of her fork. She didn't really know the answer to that question. Her mother was the one always assuring her and Vivian of their father's love for them. But somehow, the sentiment never seemed to come from Arnold Chambers himself. She became aware of Peter's hand on her upper arm. She looked up and saw the blatant concern in his expression. She shook her head gravely, but tried to maintain a controlled expression. "I'm not sure exactly," she admitted.

His face saddened at her reply. He too knew what it was like to be without the love of a father. His hand slid down her arm until it clutched her hand in support. "I understand," he said. "My dad wasn't anything to cheer about either. Although yours sounds a bit more stable than mine," Peter observed. "At least he _wants_ what's best for you." His mind's eye seemed to leave that place and travel to somewhere far away. "I don't think me ol' man was ever sober enough to care," he said at last.

Stephanie's own troubles were forgotten at that point. Now it was her turn to look at him in concern. "Your father drinks?" she asked.

"My father _drank_," he corrected, "a _lot_. I wouldn't be surprised if it killed 'im by now."

"You mean…you don't know?"

Peter seemed to come back to the present as he turned to focus on Stephanie. "I 'aven't seen or spoken to me dad in almost ten years."

Stephanie gasped. She and her father certainly didn't see eye to eye on most things, but she still couldn't imagine life without him. "Good heavens, Peter, why not?" she asked.

Peter sighed. His mind went back to that day. He relived the events in his memory like they had first occurred only yesterday. Every burning look…every shouted word…every painful swing was still vivid to him. And the bitterness and pain from that day came flooding back with the strength of the pounding tide at a full moon. He questioned whether or not he should tell Stephanie, but when he looked up and saw her face, he knew he would have to.

"He…he was an angry man. Had a lot of frustrations. Frustrations at the world. But the world was never around to hit. But 'is family was always around."

"He hit you?" Just asking the question made tears fall down her cheeks.

"Not very much. No, he usually saved it all for me mum. He only hit me every now and then, when I stepped out of line. But I never let 'im hit Mavis." Then his eyes grew dark. "…except once. He…he had gotten mum pretty bad that time, and Mavis tried to stop 'im. I wasn't quick enough and he got to 'er before I could." As the scene flashed before him with frightening vivacity, a flame of anger seemed to ignite in Peter's pale green eyes. "That was the last straw. I fought 'im. It was the only time in me life that I ever…ever fought back. When it was all over, I left. I couldn't stay in that house another moment. Not that there was any way he would let me stay if I wanted to. I tried to get Mavis to come with me, but she wouldn't. She begged me to stay, but…I couldn't live with that monster another day…I was fifteen."

Stephanie was so shocked by the story that she didn't speak for a few moments. Then she said, "And you haven't seen your family since?"

"I've seen Mavis a few times, and I call her regularly to see 'ow she's doin'. She tells me things are okay, but I still worry about 'er. Of course, she's older now and she's moved out. She's livin' with a couple of her girl friends and goin' to school and everything. She's really made a life for herself."

Stephanie smiled. She liked the way his mood lifted when he talked about his sister. "You sound proud of her."

"I am," he said with a smirk. "She's a good girl. You would really like her. And I'm pretty sure she would like you too."

Stephanie's smile broadened, "Well, hopefully I'll get to meet her someday."

"Yeah," he said, "I'd like that."

When they were finished eating, Stephanie helped Peter clean up the dishes and put everything back into the basket. Then, once they had finished, Peter leaned back against the brick chimney and Stephanie nuzzled in to his side. His right arm grasped firmly around her shoulder and his left hand intertwined with her fingers. Her head leaned against his shoulder, and his head rested lightly atop hers.

They sat that way for an hour, gazing at the stars and whispering secrets to each other. She told him how she loved the smell of wet sand, and he told her how he had thought he would need surgery when he lost his first tooth as a little boy. He made her laugh by doing some impressions, which inspired her to give it a try; but where he was good at celebrities, she was only good at farm animals. And he fell over laughing when she did a turkey gobble and nailed it.

And this went on for a few hours until Peter felt it must be nearing her curfew. Peter quietly led the way back down the fire escape, making sure the lantern always lit her path as she followed behind him. When they made it back to the street, Peter hailed her a cab and then turned to say goodnight.

"Thank you, Peter. I can't remember when I've had a more pleasant evening," she said with a beaming smile.

He smiled back, "You're very welcome, love. Be careful, and sweet dreams." He leaned in and kissed her goodbye. Once again, the kiss was soft and tender. They pulled away sooner than either would have liked because they knew they were now in public, and the cabby was probably getting impatient. Peter helped her into the cab, closed the door, and watched the automobile pull away from the curb. He sighed happily and turned to head home.

In the cab, Stephanie leaned against the headrest with peaceful glee. _'And I even had to step on my tip toes,'_ she thought with a grin.

* * *

**Cannon ispiration for this chapter:** In "Sticky Wicket Newkirk", when Klink decides to transfer Newkirk to a different stalag…

Newkirk: Sir, in leaving, I'd just like to quote somethin' I told me dear old dad on a like occasion…

Klink: Yes?

Newkirk: You give me a ruddy shootin' pain- (Schultz clasps a hand over his mouth and he and Hogan cart Newkirk away).

**And:** The scene in "Psychic Kommandant" when Schultz comes in for a barracks inspection and all of the guys spread out, pretending they were doing unsuspicious things. Newkirk grabs a sketch pad and resumes a drawing of Carter.

**And also:** In the episode "Praise the Fuhrer and Pass the Ammunition" when Newkirk does a few impressions for the show put on for Klink's birthday.


	14. A Proposition

Chapter Fourteen**: **A Proposition

"You look like rubbish."

Newkirk flashed an irritated stare towards his insulter before sitting up on the side of his bed and trying to stretch the kinks out of his neck.

Harry hiked his shoulders, "I'm just saying, you've 'ad more chipper mornin's."

Newkirk sighed and ran his fingers through his itchy head of hair. "Yeah, well…I had a late night last night," he said.

Harry put his arms through the sleeves of a fresh shirt as he said, with more than a bit of joviality, "That's _right_! You _were_ out rather late last night…and the night before that, _and_…" Harry gasped in overly dramatic surprise, "the night before _that_ as well!"

"Alright, alright, I get it. So I've 'ad a couple dates lately. What's the big shock about that?" Newkirk asked defensively.

Harry tried to look innocent. "Easy, mate! No need to get your knickers in a twist! I was just makin' an observation. But it _does_ explain why you've been so fatigued lately. The second you get 'ome, you 'it the sack. No doubt you get all worn out on those 'dates'," Harry laughed, raising his eyebrows suggestively.

Newkirk glared at his friend. "It ain't like that," he said quietly, holding back the rage enticed by his friend's implication.

Harry cocked an eyebrow, "Oh really? Somethin' special about this bird?"

Newkirk smirked and nodded. "Yeah…" he said, almost to himself, "There's a lot of things special about this girl."

From the top of the stairs, Newkirk and Harry heard a voice. It was Marty, "Gentlemen? I was wondering if you two wouldn't mind helping out a bit in the store today. I promise not to keep you too long, and I'm struggling a bit with some deadlines."

Newkirk and Harry shared a look. They both seemed fine with the suggestion. Unlike a tailor, a pickpocket had no deadlines. "Right-o, Marty! We'll be up like a shot!" Newkirk replied.

The two young men quickly finished getting dressed and then climbed the stairs to the shop.

The store was indeed busy. Fragments of jackets, trousers, and vests were strewn all across the sewing room, lying in piles on abandoned work benches. Martin was busily sewing a nice white vest with satin backing while Nina stood at the front of the shop, dealing with a walk-in customer. Marty didn't even look up when he heard the two tenants enter. "Pick a table, boys, and start working. The patterns are already laid out," the tailor directed.

Newkirk and Harry were soon busy with various articles of clothing. The room was filled with the rustling of fabrics, the soft sounds of the pages as Nina filed some paperwork at the front desk, and the occasional words of instruction from Martin. The bell chimed above the door to announce the entrance of a new customer, but Nina was the only one to give heed.

"How's this look, Marty?" Newkirk asked, carrying his finished suit over to the expert for inspection.

Martin raised his head and busily looked over the stitching. "Uhhuh," he said thoughtfully, "It looks good, Peter. Fabric's straight. Hems are even. How many times did you go over these stitchings?" he stared up at Newkirk with bifocaled eyes.

"Three times."

Marty grinned, "Well done, lad! See? You're learning!"

Newkirk chuckled as he carried the suit towards the steam press. Good ol' Marty. Even when he was tired and overworked, the chum was still pleasant to be around. As Newkirk laid the trousers on the press, he allowed himself to eavesdrop on the only other conversation in the room.

"Well, that tear doesn't look too bad," Nina said, assessing the damage on the customer's suit coat. "We should be able to fix that right up for you."

"Thank you, madam," the customer replied politely. "I would be most grateful for it."

Just as Newkirk was about to lower the press, and rid the pants of wrinkles, he halted. He recognized that voice, but from where? Newkirk turned his head to get a good look at the client. It was a tricky angle. He could only see about a third of the man's face. Peter couldn't place where he had seen the client before.

"Alright then," Nina said as she started to write something in the schedule book. "We can have this job done by Thursday. What name would you like me to put on the order?"

"Uh, Burke. B-u-r-k-e." The customer smiled widely at Nina.

Nina awkwardly returned the smile and wrote his name into the schedule. Then she took the coat and fastened a tag on it before placing it in a pile. "Alright then. Thank you for your custom, Mr. Burke."

"No, no, my dear…thank _you_." The man tipped his hat and then bent low to kiss Nina's hand.

"Oh!" she said in surprise, turning to shoot a shy smile at her husband. Predictably, Martin had stopped working—despite the nearing deadlines—and was watching the pair carefully. She gave him a look that said, 'I didn't initiate that,' before turning back to the customer and saying, "Well, be sure to remember us for your future tailoring needs."

'_I'd just as rather he'd forget about us altogether,'_ Martin thought, with a pinch of territoriality.

At that moment the customer looked up from Nina and turned slightly, making eye contact with Peter. Immediately, Newkirk recognized the man. How could he forget? Those kind, blue eyes with the deep crow's feet. The sharp angles of the cheekbones and jaw line. The dark hair with just a sprinkling of gray throughout. There was no doubt about it now. It was Mr. Grocery Bag Man.

As realization dawned on Newkirk's face, Mr. Grocery Bag Man's eyes twinkled and he nodded knowingly. The two shared a silent exchange before the man winked and then turned to leave.

As soon as the door closed, Martin mumbled, "Impudent chump."

Nina repressed a grin at her husband's obvious jealousy. "Oh, I don't know, I thought he was rather polite," she said mildly.

"No, if he were polite, he would have noted that ring on your finger and restrained himself from staking claims on what _wasn't_ his," Martin exclaimed firmly.

Newkirk wasn't listening to the older couple. His attention was still fixed on the door. "'ey Marty, how's about a breath of air? I'll be back in a jiffy."

"Sure, Peter," Marty sighed, trying to keep his thoughts civil as he continued to dwell on the flirtation of that imbecile. "A few minutes' break wouldn't hurt."

Martin had hardly finished his sentence before Newkirk was heading for the door. He left the shop and turned to follow where Mr. Grocery Bag Man had gone. He had only walked to the edge of the building when he saw him, leaning against the side of the structure, smoking on a wooden pipe.

Mr. Grocery Bag Man looked up at Peter when he turned the corner. He smiled knowingly at the young man. He took a long drag from his pipe before finally speaking. "You're a rather difficult man to track down, Peter Newkirk," he said through a smile.

Newkirk squinted in confusion, "You've been lookin' for me?"

"Yes…all over town, in fact."

"But why?"

"We'll get to that in a minute. For now, I think introductions are in order. My name is Alfred Burke," he said, offering his hand to Peter, who took it cautiously. "I am a man of many interests, some of which, I believe you might share."

"Like what?" Newkirk asked suspiciously. Other than Harry, this character was the only other soul on earth who knew of Newkirk's exploits. Something about knowing that this man knew all of his secrets intimidated Newkirk to the core, and caused his cautionary instincts to kick in.

Alfred smiled again and then turned to watch as he kicked a small stone around with the toe of his shoe. "If you remember, my dear fellow, when we met you were exercising one of your, presumably, many talents."

Peter shoved his hands deep into his pockets and glanced around, looking to see if anyone was within earshot before replying, "Yeah, and what of it?"

"Well, as I recall, you were rather good…but still in need of some practice."

"What're you gettin' at, Burke?" Newkirk asked levelly.

Again, the older man grinned; Newkirk didn't know if it was calming or agitating. Alfred Burke took a few more puffs of his pipe and then said coolly, "Let us just say that I might have an opportunity for a…'training exercise' with which you and your friend might sharpen your skills. If you're interested, that is."

Again, Newkirk glanced quickly around before grabbing Burke by the arm and escorting him farther away from public attention, eliciting a quiet chuckle from the older man. "What sort of 'training exercise'?" Newkirk asked in a low tone.

Alfred leaned in closer, "It's a house. The owner is a very wealthy Air Marshal. My sources tell me that he's got an average of ten thousand pounds on a regular basis in a safe that he keeps in his study. There's very little security and he doesn't touch his study in the evenings. His wife insists that he spends that time with the family."

Newkirk's face went white. Ten thousand pounds! That was probably more money than he had ever seen in his _life_! He controlled himself and managed to stay coherent enough to ask, "How reliable are your sources?"

"Very."

Newkirk just cocked an eyebrow.

"They found you, didn't they?" Burke replied, hiking his shoulders slightly.

Newkirk was stunned, "Rob a house? Harry and I 'ave never done anythin' like that before. It's a bit above our game."

"Is that for lack of skill…or lack of opportunity?" Alfred persisted.

Newkirk eyed the other man seriously, "I'd 'ave to talk it over with me mate."

"Can you trust him?"

Newkirk looked insulted, "Of course I can trust 'im! Harry and me, we've been best mates for years. And I trust 'im more than a turtle trusts 'is shell. I won't do it unless Harry agrees."

"Alright, alright…but I can't stick around for your answer. Talk to him right away, and if he agrees…come stand by that window with a tape measurer around your neck. If he says no, stand in front of the window for a few seconds without it. I'll be watching."

"What if 'e says yes and you take off? How can I get a hold of you?"

Alfred tapped his pipe against the wall and Newkirk watched as the ashes fell to the ground. "Don't you worry about that, my dear fellow. I'll contact you with the plans." After that, Alfred Burke crossed the street and disappeared around a corner.

Newkirk didn't waste any time heading back into the store. "Harry," he said, "can I 'ave a word?"

"Uh, sure," Harry said, noticing Newkirk's serious, and somewhat frantic expression. He rose from his bench and followed his friend out the door.

They went into the back room and Newkirk recounted the whole conversation, trying to keep his voice low.

"Wait a minute," Harry said once he had heard the whole story. "This bloke's name was Burke? Alfred Burke?"

Newkirk nodded, "Yeah. At least, I'm assumin' that's his real name."

"Cor blimey, Newkirk! Do you _realize_ who you just talked to?" Harry exclaimed excitedly.

Newkirk's face only went blank.

"That was _Alfred Burke_! Alfie the Artist! Only the most well known and well respected conman in Europe! Probably the WORLD! No _wonder_ you couldn't pinch 'is wallet! That man is the king of crime! They say that only the fact that he's a loyal Englishman keeps 'im from breaking into the Bank of England like a crackerjack box!"

Newkirk's face grew serious, "…and now 'e wants to work with us…"

Harry sobered at that, too. "…We're gonna be famous," he said in awe.

"Now, 'old on a minute. This bloke's talkin' about knockin' off an Air Mashal's 'ouse! I mean, we've pulled off some pretty fine stunts through the years. But _burglary_? Can we even _do_ that?"

Harry hiked his shoulders, "Alfie the Artist seems to think we can."

Newkirk considered this seriously, his brow furrowed in thought.

"And plus…ten thousand pounds is a lot of money. Split three ways," Harry paused to do the math in his head, "we're each looking at three thousand apiece."

That certainly did add a lot to the situation. Newkirk considered every possibility. If they got caught, they'd certainly all go to prison and probably for a very long time. But, if this Alfie the Artist fellow was so renowned, surely he would be able to come up with a good, solid plan to avoid capture. And if it were a success, Newkirk would have three thousand pounds on his hands. He'd be able to finally pay Marty all of the back rent he owed the tailor. He could even afford to buy Stephanie a dress, or maybe some nice jewelry. She would like that, a pretty necklace, or a set of earrings…or a ring…

Newkirk looked up at his friend and asked seriously, "Do you think we're up for somethin' this big?"

Harry nodded slowly, "I think we can do this, Newkirk."

There was a long silence as Newkirk continued to turn the scenario around in his head, viewing it from all angles. "Okay…" the word was quiet as he let last-minute thoughts dash through his mind. "Okay," he said more firmly, heading back into the work room and reaching for a tape measurer.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I feel I should point out that I have never successfully sewed anything in my life ("successfully" being a very key word, in that I have embarked on several such endeavors, but never to any favorably outcome). So, I'm not actually sure how many stitches it takes to keep a seam from popping. I wrote three…but honestly have no clue if that estimate is even in the ballpark. Those of you readers who are fabrically inclined, I'd welcome a correction.

**Another Author's Note:** I've gone back and changed the "Admiral" character to an "Air Marshal" instead. I just thought, considering that Newkirk eventually ends up in the RAF, it might be more fun to have his prospective target be someone in the airforce instead of the navy.

**Canon inspiration for this chapter:** All of the stuff with Newkirk sewing suits and things was inspired by the scene when Newkirk is trying to fit Tiger for a disguise in "Hold that Tiger"…

Newkirk: The matter is, Colonel, that a gentleman's tailor is a gentlemen's tailor. And what we have here is _no_ gentleman!

**And: **Some Harry's lines in this chapter were taken from the scene in "The Safecracker Suite", when Newkirk is describing Alfie the Artist to Hogan and the others…

Newkirk: He's brilliant! He could crack the bank of England like a tin of sardines, but only his loyalty to the crown keeps him from it.


	15. Exposed

Chapter Fifteen: Exposed

Several weeks went past, and life seemed to adopt a new standard of normality for Peter Newkirk. He still went with Harry out onto the streets in the mornings, and he sometimes helped in the tailor shop as well; but in the afternoons and evenings, Newkirk would travel to the appointed destination and meet Stephanie. While their rooftop hideaway was still their favorite meeting place, the young couple had recently taken to sharing walks around town or eating a simple lunch in one of the small London cafés. They got used to being around each other, and soon, their interaction was very easy and they didn't have to work to keep a conversation going. They were officially a couple and they were both very comfortable with that.

One afternoon, at the tailor shop, Newkirk ate his lunch quickly, nearly choking on the hard crust of the brown bread several times.

"My, my! Slow down, lad!" Nina said, dusting some crumbs off of the table with a towel, "You're going to gag yourself if you don't chew properly."

Newkirk squared his shoulders and lessened the speed of his eating by a margin. He could hardly help it though. He was looking forward to what he had planned for Stephanie that day. He had recently run across a small ice cream parlor on the outskirts of the main city area. The ice cream was really good, and the price was something he could afford. There had already been a few times, when they were out to eat, that Peter noticed the meal exceeded his budget. It was terribly embarrassing to have Stephanie pay for their food. He had been very careful about where he took her after that. He wanted to pay for the meal, but he also wanted it to be decent and something that she would enjoy. This little ice cream parlor was perfect. It was affordable, but also very yummy.

"Nina," Harry said with a mouth full of food. "I think this is the best egg sandwich you've ever made!"

Nina smiled as she took a seat next to her husband and prepared to eat her own sandwich. "Why, thank you, Harry dear! How very kind of you."

"Yes, Nina. This is good, thank you," Newkirk said, noticing his shirt was coated in tiny breadcrumbs.

"You're welcome, dear."

Peter swatted away the crumbs with the back of his hand. When he looked up, he saw Martin staring at him in bewilderment. Newkirk's hand instinctively rushed to his face and wiped around his mouth, but he didn't feel any condiments or crumbs. He gave Marty a confused look, but the older man just continued to blink in amazement. Newkirk hiked his shoulders, "What?" he asked.

Martin glanced down at the newspaper in his hands, and then slowly handed the paper over to Newkirk.

Peter took the paper with confusion on his face. He gave Martin one more long, strange look before bowing his head to read the paper. Immediately, he saw what Martin's shock had been about. On the paper, in three distinct and clear photographs, were images of Stephanie…and Peter.

They must have been taken on one of their walks. In one photo, they were smiling and walking arm in arm. In another, they were holding hands while they crossed a street. And in the last picture, Peter's face was tilted near her ear, obviously whispering something to her, and Stephanie was laughing hysterically. Newkirk's eyes quickly jumped up to read the headline: DUKE'S DAUGHTER HAS MYSTERY MAN!

Newkirk's head shot up and he locked eyes with Marty. Peter didn't know what to say. He didn't even know what to think! How did this happen? How could they not have seen the photographer? Obviously the man must have followed them for some time in order to get those photos. Newkirk felt invaded. He felt like his very privacy had been violated. His eyes dropped as he studied the table. He had to think through this. Had Stephanie seen this? Would he have to tell her about it? How would she react? Suddenly, a soft whistle broke Newkirk's concentration.

"Cor, is that _you_, mate?" Harry said, leaning towards Newkirk to get a closer look at the paper. "Blimey! It _is_!"

Peter was still so stunned that he didn't even respond when Harry snatched the paper away.

Nina looked up in confusion, "What is he talking about?"

Martin just reached over and patted his wife's hand. He watched Newkirk's face carefully and noticed the tension and turmoil conflicting there. He had known that Newkirk often kept secrets, especially about his personal life, but the young man wasn't used to having his secrets discovered. The exposing photographs clearly knocked Peter off guard. Martin was concerned about Newkirk. He didn't think any less of him, but he knew that Peter kept those secrets because, for some reason, he felt he had to. Marty was worried that this would greatly upset his young friend.

Harry studied the pictures more closely. "And this must be that little bird you keep runnin' off to see," he said, pointing to the lovely blonde in the picture.

Newkirk ran his fingers through his hair and shook his head slowly. He wasn't really addressing Harry's comment. He shook his head out of quiet distress. His mind was so overwhelmed; he didn't know what to think.

"Why didn't you tell us about her, Peter?" Martin asked quietly.

Newkirk looked up, "I…I don't know," his gaze fell to the table again. "I guess I didn't know what you would think," he stated simply.

At that point, Harry's eyes turned away from the pictures, and he read the headline. "Hey, wait a minute…She's the kid of some ruddy _Duke_?"

Newkirk's gaze slowly lifted upon his friend. This was the reaction he was anticipating all along.

Harry's face looked disgusted, "You're dating a bloody toff?!"

Newkirk wasn't about to let Stephanie come under ridicule there. He sprang from his seat, causing Nina to gasp. "And what if I am?" he shouted angrily. "What business is it of yours?"

Harry slapped the paper down onto the table with echoing frustration. "I never thought I'd see the day when _Peter Newkirk_ would sell out to the rich man!" With each word, Harry's tone grew in intensity.

"Shut up, Harry! You don't know what you're talkin' about," there was a distinct tone of warning in Newkirk's voice.

"I mean," Harry continued, standing from the table. "It's bad enough this bird is a toff. But 'er dad ain't just _any_ toff! The bloke's a bloody politician! It's cause of gents like 'im that you and I are off so bad! They're the ones settin' all the laws that make guys like us _live_ these rotten lives! Scrapin' and bleedin' just to make ends meet! And now you're tellin' me that you're _dating_ one of 'em?!"

"I'm datin' the girl, Harry. Not her ruddy father! She's not like that. She's different."

"Oh, that's all rubbish, mate," Harry said. "It's rubbish and you know it! They're all the same! All they care about is money and dreamin' up new ways to take if from us!"

"You're wrong, Harry! Stephanie's not like that!"

"But she is, Newkirk. Don't you see?" Harry picked the paper up and shook it in Newkirk's face with a big fist. "Even now, she's usin' you as a bloody publicity stunt for her daddy!"

"NO!" Peter said, slapping his friend's hand away with more than the needed amount of force.

"Come on, Peter!" Harry shook Newkirk's shoulder forcefully, "Wake up! She's a bloody toff! You _hate_ toffs!"

"WELL I _LOVE_ THIS ONE!" Newkirk said, harshly shoving his friend backwards.

Harry hit the wall roughly and struggled to keep his footing. The noise level in the room abruptly turned from deafening loud to completely silent. Harry stared at Newkirk with an expression of shock and betrayal. It was like he was viewing his old friend in a completely different light. At that moment, Newkirk was like an alien to Harry.

But Newkirk didn't care. He pointed a warning finger at Harry. "I don't want to hear you talk about me girl that way _ever_ again. You understand me?" his voice growled in intensity.

Harry just starred at him and nodded.

Then Newkirk turned and looked at Martin and Nina. The poor woman looked so frightened and Martin had his arms around her in a calming fashion. It pained Newkirk to see her so obviously frightened because of him. All he could say was, "I'm sorry," then he grabbed the newspaper from the table and walked swiftly out the door.

* * *

The previous night, Peter and Stephanie had agreed to meet together at a familiar café at one o'clock. Newkirk was there almost fifteen minutes early, but he didn't care. He needed to get out of that tailor shop for a while. Sitting at a small table outside the front of the café, Newkirk's mind replayed the scene that had just transpired back home.

He had expected such a reaction to come from Harry, but knowing something was coming didn't always shield from the pain of it. It had hurt. It had hurt a lot. He wanted so badly for his friend to understand. He wanted Harry to be able to see past Stephanie's social standing and see her for who she really was. For Harry to blow up that way and start accusing her of all those things was just ridiculous.

Peter sighed, he hadn't asked for any of this. How was he supposed to know that he would fall in love with someone like Stephanie? Sure, Harry was surprised. But it was nothing near the degree of surprise Newkirk was faced with by this whole thing. It was understandable that Harry was confused. But Newkirk was even more confused. Newkirk had grown up feeding his bitterness and discomfort with the wealthy class until that bitterness grew into a solid hatred. Now, all of a sudden, his opinion of one, very special rich person…was changing drastically. The healthy and human side of his heart was arguing with the callused and injured side…and the former mentioned was winning. He was proving his own philosophy wrong simply by allowing himself to love.

And yes, he loved her. He knew that now. Martin had been right. Peter had to know her first, before he could love her. And over the course of the few weeks he and Stephanie had walked through together, Peter had been given time to learn a lot about her. And everything he learned gave him more to love.

Stephanie was a beautiful, kind, and loving woman, with a tender heart and a solid understanding of who she was. She was discreetly opinionated—this was a quality that took Peter a while to learn about her—she had opinions about almost everything, but she would have to be addressed directly before she would share them. Unless, of course, her position felt violated or threatened, then she would speak up without further prompt. It wasn't in her nature to complain, except on behalf of others. She loved animals and envied birds in their ability of flight. She took her tea sweet except in the mornings and she never went barefoot because she thought her toes were too long. Her smile was radiant and her laugh contagious. And all in all, she was a gem of a human being.

Newkirk wondered if she had seen the headline. He was worried that it would upset her. He had been stunned when he saw it, and the reception it received from his friends was anything but welcomed. He wondered if her family had read it and treated her with similar distaste. He hated seeing the way Harry responded so negatively to Stephanie without having even met her. Harry had been so quick to judge her, to hate her. If it had been that easy for Harry to decide to loath Stephanie, Peter winced at the thought of the reaction her parents must have had at seeing the picture of this rogue standing beside their prized daughter. He hated thinking of Stephanie being judged that way, and knowing that he was most likely being judged with the same irrationality angered and frustrated Newkirk.

Then he heard the clicking of high-heeled shoes jaunting swiftly towards him. He quickly turned in his seat and looked over his shoulder. He grabbed the newspaper and stood from the table to greet her.

When she saw him, Stephanie abruptly slowed to a stop. She was slightly breathless as she and Peter stood facing each other, four paces apart. In her right hand, she clutched a newspaper identical to the one in Peter's hand. They stared at each other, neither one knowing what so say. Obviously, they had both seen the headline. That eliminated the scripts of initial revelation that both had been rehearsing in their heads in case the other had not yet heard. Finally, after a sustained moment of trepidation, the pair simultaneously closed the distance.

"Oh, Peter!" Stephanie gasped as she stepped towards him with overwhelmed fatigue.

Peter opened his arms just in time to envelope his girl in a warm hug. He grasped her firmly and rocked her from side to side in an effort to calm her. He pushed his face into her hair and softly spoke into her ear. "How are you?" he asked. He could feel her sigh deeply before she pulled away. He tried to gauge her expression as she brushed the hair out of her face and searched for the words to use.

"I don't know. Upset. Hurt…"

He swept her into another hug. "I'm sorry, love," he said earnestly. "I wasn't thinin'. You're gettin' to be a well-known figure now. I should 'ave known better. I should 'ave been watchin' for people wantin' to take pictures."

Again, she pulled away from his grasp. "No, Peter," she said, holding back tears. "I'm not upset with you. You did nothing wrong. It's…_them_."

Peter took to rubbing her arms lovingly if she wouldn't let him hold her. He looked into her eyes with a sad expression. "Your parents?" he asked simply.

Stephanie nodded. "They just don't understand, Peter! They think you're some…some…" she trailed off, refusing to finish the sentence, even though Peter was now very keen on knowing the end of it. She looked at him again, "They just don't know you for who you really are."

Peter nodded slowly. "Yeah," he said, "one of me mates 'ad a similar reaction, I think."

This time, when Stephanie sighed, it was in frustrated disgust. "Why do people have to be so stupid?"

Peter allowed himself to smile at her, "Maybe we shouldn't be too hard on 'em, lovie. If you remember, it took me a bit before I warmed up to the idea at first."

She gave a small smirk, reaching up and cupping his cheek tenderly, "Yes, but you grew out of your prejudice."

"Well, maybe they will, too."

Stephanie didn't look convinced. "Do you really think they can?" she asked seriously.

Peter's face dropped. He honestly didn't think he knew the answer to that. Bitterness was an intense and powerful monster. If unchecked, it had the ability to grow into something destructive enough to destroy lives from the inside out. Only extenuating circumstances allowed Peter to slay that beast in his own life. And he knew what a challenge it could be. He didn't know how realistic it was that Harry and Stephanie's family would ever be able to swallow that pride. It would be asking a lot.

"I don't know," Peter finally admitted. Then he looked deep into her eyes with set determination, "But I'm not plannin' on leaving 'em any choice."


	16. Coming Down from the Rooftops

Chapter Sixteen: Coming Down from the Rooftops

Peter's plans to visit the ice cream parlor quickly vanished and the pair entered the café and spent their time discussing the issues raised by the photographs. Apparently, whoever wrote the article had interviewed Stephanie's father briefly the day before, asking him if he had met the man in the photos. The Duke replied that he had "never seen that face before" and that he had "no idea who he could be." This quote was used as the basis for the "mystery man" theme of the article. Other interviews appeared in the text, such as the one from the waitress who served Peter and Stephanie their meal at one restaurant. She offered little information except that, "His accent was definitely cockney, and he wore rather plain looking clothes. He didn't leave a tip either." The journalist offered several speculations as to Newkirk's identity, none of which were particularly flattering or accurate.

As he and Stephanie read the article together, Newkirk tried not to look as offended as he really felt. He just wanted to know how they were going to handle it. Stephanie's dad confronted her about the article shortly before she left to join Newkirk at that café. Predictably, an argument ensued between father and daughter. Peter asked her what her father had said, but Stephanie refused to repeat the conversation.

"He just didn't understand, Peter. How could he? You're not what he expected."

Peter looked at her solemnly, "So did you tell 'im? About me?"

She pinched her lips together and to the side in a look of uncertainty before saying, "No…I was angry with him, and I didn't feel like saying much of anything to him. So I just left. I came here, to you."

Peter nodded thoughtfully, "Well, unlike 'ow it was for you, this thing," he tapped lightly on the article as it lay on the table, "didn't leave much room for mystery when it came to _your _identity."

"So what happened?"

"Harry—that's the chap I live with—I'd say 'e tossed 'is wig a bit. You weren't what 'e was expectin' either, I suppose."

"But how about you? How are you with all of this?" Stephanie asked, reaching over to grab Peter's hand from under the small table. She was used to being in the public eye, at least to some degree, but she suspected Peter had never experienced something like this before. She was concerned that all of the attention would intimidate him too much to be willing to maintain the relationship. She would never want to make him do something he didn't want to do, so she would let him walk away if asking him to stay was too much to ask. But she silently prayed that he wouldn't leave her over this.

Peter looked at her, shaking his head softly. "I've never done anything like this before," he said honestly. "I don't know what to do."

She started rubbing his hand tenderly. "You just be yourself, Peter. Believe me, I've seen this happen time and time again. These articles," She lifted the paper off of the table and hiked her shoulders at it, "they seem like something big right now, but in a few days, our pictures will be replaced with some other big scandal. People just want something to gossip about around the dinner table for a few days. As long as we don't do anything to feed these rumors, they'll go away…and someone else will be the topic of discussion at all those dinner tables."

Peter looked apprehensive, but still nodded. He had to trust that Stephanie knew what she was talking about.

Just then, a big man behind the counter suddenly noticed the couple. "Hey," he said with realization, "You're the Duke of Langbourne's daughter."

Peter and Stephanie both looked up at the burly man, but neither one replied.

Surprise registered on the man's face and he pointed a finger at Newkirk, "And you're the 'mystery man'!"

"Come on," Stephanie said in a low tone, gathering the two newspapers from the table. "Let's leave."

Newkirk didn't move initially. He starred at the man behind the counter for a while, stunned that he had been recognized. _'Is this what it's going to be like now?'_ he wondered. Then he felt Stephanie's hand on his shoulder. He looked up at her with a worried expression.

She looked at him sympathetically and simply repeated, "Come on."

Newkirk stood and the two of them started to leave the café, but the damage had been done. The whole café was alerted to their presence and soon, all of its patrons were starring at him and Stephanie. The highlighted couple tried to make there way towards the door.

"Hey, what's the rush?" one man asked, standing from his table and reaching out to grasp Newkirk's arm lightly. "Why don't you sit down and tell us about yourself?"

As soon as that physical contact was made, Newkirk felt captured. He felt threatened, like an animal being backed into a corner. He was so shaken that all he could reply was a weak, "N-no."

Fortunately, Stephanie was keenly aware of his unease. She coolly reached over and removed the man's hand from Peter's shoulder. "Thank you for the offer," she replied diplomatically, "However, we were just on our way out, so if you'd excuse us…" Stephanie pushed passed the small crowd of people, consistently towing Peter along behind her.

"Aw, come on, lady," the man persisted, "At least have him tell us his name."

Stephanie ignored him and simply focused on getting Newkirk out of that building. Even as they retreated down the sidewalk, they could still hear the man holler, "Hey, wait a minute! Come back here! What's your name, chum?"

Stephanie protectively linked her arm through Newkirk's as they distanced themselves more and more from the café. Peter was still so startled that she had to keep pressure on his arm to make sure he kept a steady pace and didn't fall behind.

He glanced over his shoulder multiple times to see if anyone from the café followed them out, while Stephanie kept her eyes peeled in front of them for any cameras or suspicious people.

When they had walked a few blocks, Stephanie turned them down an alley way for some privacy. They went a good distance down the long alley before finally stopping by some large wooden crates. Newkirk moved to take a seat on one of the crates as Stephanie turned and peered down the alley to make sure no one was watching them from the street. When she looked back at him, Peter was leaning forward with both hands resting on his knees. He stared up at her with eyebrows gently raised and mouth closed in a slight grimace. She observed him with her hands placed tiredly on her hips. She didn't know what he wanted her to say to him.

He breathed in smoothly, "I guess I'll 'ave to get used to that?"

It wasn't a statement. Stephanie knew that. He was asking a question; the answer to which, might determine whether or not this relationship was worth the effort to him. Stephanie sighed as she approached him. She stood right in front of him and lovingly ran both hands through his hair, causing him to gaze up at her. "Maybe for a little while," she admitted.

He lowered his head and sighed. He didn't know if he could do this, live in the public eye. He never realized how much he enjoyed living his life unnoticed by the multitudes. But now that that anonymity was gone, Newkirk didn't know if he had the patience to be the star of London's gossip ring. He sighed again and reached up to grab one of her wrists for support as she continued to run her fingers through his hair. "Life was so uncomplicated on the rooftops," he mused aloud.

The pace of her gentle massage slowed for a moment, then she picked it up again when she asked, "But is life down here still worth it?"

Newkirk heard the unmistakable tremor that quaked through her voice as she asked the question. He looked up once more into her face and saw the tears forming in her eyes. Then he realized what she was asking. She was afraid of losing him. Peter quickly reached up and pulled her onto his lap. His arms went around her and she rested her head against his shoulder, clutching his neck to her forehead as though afraid some unnamable force might pull him away from her. He held her firmly and rocked her back and forth as he felt his neck and shirt grow damp from her tears. "You're worth anything to me, Steph," he choked out in a whisper. Fighting back tears of his own, he said, "I wouldn't leave you over this. Not for the world." He rubbed soothing circles into her back, "…I love you."

Peter felt, rather than heard, her sobbing subside. He heard her breathe in a shaky breath before she pulled back in his grasp to look him in the eye. It was the first time he had said "I love you," to any girl and really meant it. Now, he wondered if he had done the right thing by saying it at all.

Stephanie gazed at him with her chocolate browns over the flood that was gathering on her lids and lashes. Finally, she smiled that timid, but radiant smile and said, "I love you too, Peter. I love you so much!"

He beamed at her in relief before leaning in for a celebratory kiss. He had felt all along that their connection was something special. Still, hearing her say the words set off something inside him. Yes, they were in love. And no, there was nothing the rest of the world could do about it.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Sorry this one has taken so long to get posted. We had some weather issues here that seemed determined to tamper with my electricity. We've been out of power for a little while and I've only just been able to post this chapter due to that. It probably doesn't help that this is an exceptionally short chapter. Oh well, hopefully you enjoyed it anyway! I'll try to get the next chapter up a lot quicker as an attempt to make it up to you.


	17. The Silent and the Spoken

Chapter Seventeen: The Silent and the Spoken

After about an hour or so, it was finally decided—unwillingly and with a fair amount of dread—that both Stephanie and Peter should return to their respective homes and see if they couldn't smooth anything over with their loved ones. Their farewell kiss lingered longer than usual, as if to charge up the needed courage for the inevitable confrontation they would each receive upon their return home.

The walk back to the Stitch in Time tailor shop seemed somehow shorter to Newkirk than usual. Perhaps that was because he counted on the journey to buy him some time to conceive a good plan of action for talking to Harry…and time always seemed to be faster fleeting when one craved it. But regardless of the reason, Newkirk soon found himself approaching the front entrance of the tailor shop with a steady gaze and a single gulp.

The bell above the door sang a greeting to Newkirk as he entered the small shop. He didn't know if he was worried or relieved to find that Marty and Nina were the only ones in the store. Upon his entrance, both husband and wife looked up at Peter in acknowledgement.

There was a long pause. Air circulated around the room with deafening silence. Newkirk looked solemnly from one face to the other, and then back again. He tried to read their expressions. Nina's face possessed a combination of relief and caution, as though she were glad to see he was home, but not quite sure how he would behave. Marty's expression was harder to determine. When the elderly man first saw Newkirk enter, he inclined his head with a long intake of breath, perhaps indicating that he was resolved somehow by Newkirk's return. But his brow was furrowed and his eyes partially closed as he gazed at Newkirk. The young man couldn't help but recognize one clear emotion in that stare: disappointment.

Unable to hold fast any longer beneath the gaze of his cherished friend, Newkirk broke eye contact with Marty and glanced idly around the room. "Where's Harry then?" he asked.

Again, there was a pause. Newkirk glanced up at Marty, but the tailor didn't speak.

It was Nina who finally answered him, "He's gone down stairs. I believe he's resting."

Peter turned to look at the woman. Her timid voice seemed unsure as she responded. Clearly, she was still wary of another row between those two possibly taking place. He tried to give her a reassuring smile. "I'm sorry about before, Nina," he said, "I…I didn't think it would go that way."

She offered a small smile in return and Newkirk felt satisfied, at least to a small degree.

Newkirk looked at the back door, his mind's eye seeing through it and settling on the staircase that would lead the way to his friend. He opted not to head that way just yet. He still wasn't sure what he would say to Harry when he got there.

Instead, he took a few more steps into the room, taking unmerited interest in the alignment of the floorboards beneath him. He cleared his throat and tapped his fingers on the sides of his legs idly. "Well…" he said, then cursed himself for committing to speaking a sentence when he had no idea what to say.

After another silence, Marty sighed and the rolling of his eyes was practically audible as he said, "Well come on in, boy, and stop being so awkward. We'll need to talk about this."

With a resigned nod, Newkirk obeyed and joined Marty and Nina at the worktable. A short silence—which felt like a year—filled the air as everyone mutually waited for someone to start the conversation. Newkirk wasn't sure how they would respond to his secret. Technically speaking, he had never _lied_ to them. That had to count for_ something_. But somehow, he doubted they would see it that way. He must have hurt them by not telling them about Stephanie, otherwise, they wouldn't be giving him this strange silent treatment. He was sorry if he had hurt them. As bad as he was about showing it, he really did love these people. He felt more loved by these two people than he did his own parents. Together, they had served to shape and guide Newkirk through many years of struggles, pains, and celebrations.

Finally, Marty spoke. "Peter, why didn't you tell us?" he asked quietly.

The young man sighed. "I don't know," he shrugged. "I guess I was worried."

Nina reached across the table and placed her hand over Newkirk's. "Worried about what, dear?"

Again, Newkirk hiked his shoulders slightly. He searched through all his thoughts and emotions to collect a true response. Finally, he simply answered, "That you would respond like Harry. Blow up at her because she was different."

Nina lowered her eyebrows low and pursed her lips, shaking her head as if to say 'that would never happen'. But Marty just said, "Really now, Peter…don't you know us any better than that? Is that really what you thought of us?"

Newkirk breathed a small laugh and shook his head. "No, I guess not," he said, turning his hand over beneath Nina's and holding it gently.

"Then why?" Marty pressed, "Why didn't you tell us who she was?"

Newkirk thought hard about that question. Why _hadn't_ he told them? He trusted them, certainly. But still, something inside told him he had to keep her identity a secret. The only explanation was one that Newkirk had difficulty admitting. "I…I guess I was ashamed," he finally replied.

"Ashamed of Stephanie?" Nina asked.

Newkirk's head jerked up, "No!" he said quickly. He looked at Nina desperately, somehow communicating through that look that he could never be ashamed of someone as wonderful as Stephanie. "No…" he repeated quietly, dropping his head once again to look at the table, "…not of Stephanie."

Marty and Nina exchanged glances. "Ashamed of yourself?" Marty asked.

Peter sighed and nodded. Then, looking up he asked, "Do you know 'ow long I've gone hatin' the upper-class? Practically me whole life!" he said in distress. "The way they look, the way they sound, the way they dress…I 'ated all of it. Never even gave 'em a chance! If you 'ad asked me a month ago what I thought about the Duke Langbourne and 'is family, I would 'ave responded the _exact same way_ as Harry did today!" Newkirk shook his head forlornly. His tone softened in remorse, "And if I 'ad seen Steph's picture in that paper a month ago…I would have hated her." He clasped his free hand over his eyes in frustration and his voice started to tremble with emotion, "I wouldn't 'ave even_ known_ her! …But she would 'ave been rich, and I would 'ave hated her for it."

Nina and Marty just watched as Newkirk's conscience visibly disciplined him within. The elderly couple had never seen this young man so torn up over a personal issue. Never before had he shown this much emotion so openly. Knowing the rarity of the moment, neither Nina nor Marty chose to speak for a long while. Instead, they let Newkirk do all the talking and left him plenty of time just to think.

After Newkirk was quiet for a moment, Marty finally responded. "Hate…it's such a treacherous thing," the old man observed quietly. "It makes you think all of the loathing and violence is directed towards something else, but really it's your own heart that takes the beating. It tears at you, especially hatred against our fellow man. Aside from hatred of God, I cannot think of any other form of hatred that is more devastating and self-defeating to us than the hatred of our fellow man. It's a beast, it is. It eats at you from the inside until it breaches your ability to contain it and it spews out into the world, leaving wrecks and shambles in its wake. Hate spawns nothing but more hate." The tailor grew quiet after that. The wisdom of his words coated the air with meaning. All three people at the table sunk into deep thought.

After a while, Nina's voice broke the silence. "Peter," she began, "Have you ever heard the phrase 'Money is the root of all evil'?"

Newkirk looked up. "Yeah," he said with a slightly dazed expression.

"Do you believe that's true?"

Peter pursed his lips in thought. After a while, deliberating it in his mind, he finally answered, "No." Hiking his shoulders softly, he explained, "Stephanie's got money, and she's not evil."

Nina nodded her head approvingly, "Now what would you say if I told you that that phrase is often misquoted?"

Newkirk looked confused, "Misquoted? Misquoted 'ow?"

"Well," the woman began, "It's actually a quote from the Bible, and it never really said that money is the root of all evil, but rather, 'the _love_ of money is the root of all evil'. Can you see the difference that small change makes to the phrase and it's meaning?" She could already see the wheels turning in his head.

He nodded, "Yeah, I'd agree with that then. Lovin' money is 'ow we get all the greedy people in the world."

"It's also how we get all the Peter Newkirk's in the world," Nina said frankly.

Newkirk jerked his head up to look at her squarely. He swiftly removed his hand from hers and drew slightly back from the table. His expression was stern as he starred at her with questions in his eyes. When she gave him no explanation, he turned to look at Marty.

The old tailor was looking at his wife with a cocked eyebrow, seeming somehow impressed with her bluntness. When he noticed Newkirk observing him, Martin just looked at the young man, raised his eyebrows high and turned his head slightly, as if saying, 'She's right, my boy.'

Newkirk felt like he'd been punched in the stomach. He hadn't expected such an insult to come from this sweet little woman he trusted so much. "What do you mean by that?" He asked with hurt emotions.

She answered, "Come now, Peter. Can't you see? You _love_ money! You love money so terribly much, _too_ terribly much! It's conceived in you the hatred Martin just described."

Newkirk's mouth hung loosely opened in shock. He scoffed defensively and tried to reply, but he couldn't seem to form any coherent sentences. He looked to the tailor for some support, but Marty had only a different variation of the face he had a moment ago, telling him, "Peter, she's right."

Newkirk shook his head in disbelief. How could Nina say something like that? He didn't love money! He just told them how he hated anyone who had it! "I can't believe this," he stated quietly. He hiked his shoulders in a desperate expression. "That's ridiculous!" he exclaimed. "I was born in the slums and I've grown up in the slums. Money is somethin' I've never even 'ad. 'ow can I love somethin' I've never 'ad? It doesn't even make any sense."

Marty shook his head, "You misunderstand, Peter. It's not strictly the having of the money that makes one love it. Love of something is not restricted only to the having of it. You see? It's for the very reason you've never had it that makes you so driven by it. And you just illustrated the contrasting principle a moment ago. Just as you can hate something, or some_one_, without knowing it…you can also love something…without having it."

Newkirk eyed them both seriously. He didn't agree with the things they were saying, and he certainly didn't like them. He felt like he was being accused of something he didn't do. He didn't love money. If anything, he hated it! Money had never helped him. It had never been there when he needed it. He had made his way through life just fine, never having something as convenient as money to make it easy on him. He didn't have any reason to love money.

He loved both Marty and Nina, and he respected them. Any other day, he would have believed what they said without hesitation or question. But on this particular occasion, he could not bring himself to agree with these surrogate parents. They weren't perfect, after all. They were just people. Sometimes, people simply got things wrong. And that's what Marty and Nina were…dead wrong about him.

He shook his head, "I'm sorry," he said, rising from his seat. "I can't agree with you." He walked past them and was soon exiting the room, heading for the basement.

When the door to the storeroom closed with a click, husband and wife shared a look that said, 'That didn't go well.' Nina shook her head solemnly. "I worry for him, Martin," she confessed.

Marty placed a loving hand on her shoulder and squeezed it tenderly. He leaned in and kissed her lightly on the side of the head, whispering, "I know, dearest. So do I."

* * *

Newkirk was quite discontented by the conversation with Marty and Nina. But he knew he would soon be facing another challenge in his best friend. Newkirk paused when he reached the steps. He had to confront Harry now, but after everything that just transpired in the other room, he wasn't really looking forward to another argument. Newkirk breathed in a deep breath and then let it leak out of his lungs in a long sigh, mentally pushing his hurt feelings into the back of his mind, making room for the new frustrations that awaited him downstairs. Harry could be pretty stubborn sometimes, even more so than Newkirk. Still, Harry and Newkirk shared a room. If Peter wanted to get any sleep tonight, then it was not as though he could avoid going down there for much longer. He would have to face his friend, whether he liked it or not.

When Newkirk entered his and Harry's living quarters, he had hoped to find his friend already asleep. He had no such luck.

Harry was sitting on the corner of his bed, scraping the dried dirt out of his shoe soles with a butter knife. He looked up when he heard Newkirk enter. They shared a mutual expression of controlled hostility. Harry shook his head and turned his attentions towards a pack of cigarettes by his bed. He grabbed one of the small white sticks and placed it in his mouth, lighting its tip.

Newkirk advanced farther into the room. "Harry…" he began.

"Oh shut up, Newkirk." Harry responded quietly, a soft puff of smoke accompanying the words as they spread into the air. It was not a harsh command, nor a rude remark; it was simply a plea for shared silence. Harry was done arguing, he just wanted quietude.

Newkirk gave a small nod. Without an idea as to what else to do, he moved towards his bed and started changing into his night things. He was about to pull his night shirt over his head when he felt a small light object hit his chest. He looked down at the thrown cigarette and then glanced up at Harry who gave Newkirk a look that said, 'Aren't you going to pick it up?' Newkirk smirked and accepted the cigarette gratefully.

Harry took one more long drag of his own, and then extended his arm out towards Newkirk, pressing the tips of the two cigarettes together, helping Peter light his.

After a few puffs, Newkirk pulled away. He tipped his head towards his friend in a slight nod. "Cheers," he said.

"Yup," replied Harry.

And the two friends smoked their pleasures in peace, conflict completely resolved.

* * *

**Author's Note:** As you may or may not have guessed, I am in fact a woman. And being one, I admittedly had no clue how men would resolve such a quarrel as I had created in this story. I was talking with a friend (a male friend and fellow writer) and complaining to him about my writer's block for this scene. I finally said, "I guess I'm just going to have them talk it out." And would you believe, he laughed in my face! He said, "guys don't 'talk anything out'!" I asked him how guys would handle it then and he told me that basically there would be a bit of an awkward moment at first, but this would only last a few seconds. Then, a look would be exchanged, and both men would silently agree that the conflict had been resolved and that everything was "cool". So, I attempted to write that in this closing scene. I have no clue how it turned out…but hopefully it was something true to life. I don't know…I won't pretend to understand men. Ha!

**Another Author's Note:** The entire Bible verse Nina quoted is found in I Timothy 6:10 and reads, "For the love of money is the root of all evil: which while some coveted after [money], they have erred from the faith, and pierced themselves through with many sorrows." This is from the King James Version and I chose this particular translation because I figured it would be a popular choice in the 1930's. However, the key word "love", the importance of which Nina pointed out, can be found in every translation I've seen.


	18. It Must be Tonight

**Author's Note:** For those of you who didn't see my revised chapter 14, I changed the "Admiral" character to be an "Air Marshal" instead. I thought it would be more fun for Newkirk's prospective target to be in the RAF. It's just another link to his life during the actual show.

* * *

Chapter Eighteen: It must be tonight

When the next day arrived, most of the angry and hurt moods from the night before had seemed to subside. The two pickpockets ate breakfast quietly with the tailor and his wife. The remembrance of the conflict still rested heavily on the shoulders of all four people; but, to their credits, not one showed discontent outwardly. The morning meal was shared peacefully. All was quiet until a brisk rapping came at the store window.

Marty moved to glance over his shoulder towards the store entrance, and he scowled. He recognized the man from a few weeks ago and was instantly put on edge. It was that no good flirt, what's-his-name.

"Oh, it's Mr. Burke," Nina observed happily.

Marty turned to cock an eyebrow at his wife. She came up with that name rather quickly in his opinion.

She merely looked at him with a gaze that said, 'Oh settle down, he's not come to carry me off.' She moved to stand, saying mildly, "I'd better see what he wants."

Marty's hand was soon on her shoulder, stilling her movements, "You'll do no such thing. _I'll_ see to him. He's got a fair amount of nerve to be interrupting someone's mealtime like this," he muttered.

Nina smiled amusedly as she watched her husband stand and walk to the door. She noticed how Martin adopted his "protective" stance as he approached the costumer. Her smile grew; she still loved seeing her husband get all riled up on account of her.

Martin only opened the door a crack, just big enough for his face to peer through. "We're not open for another hour," he stated with controlled resentment.

Alfred Burke glanced over the tailor's shoulder towards the three others sitting at the table in the back.

Martin moved his head to block the other man's view. "Whatever it is, it'll have to wait until open hours," he said.

Alfie turned his attention back onto Martin. The crook slipped easily into the role of a desperate old man as he rung his hat in his hands and pinched his face into a slight grimace. "I understand that, sir. Really I do. And I wouldn't be this impolite regularly but…you see, I've just got to have my suit now. It can hardly wait another hour."

Marty lowered his eyebrows and studied the man before him. Patiently, he listened to the small man's story.

Seeing that he had secured the tailor's attention, Alfie continued, "A buddy of mine just managed to get me a job offer working at his father-in-law's business. And I'm supposed to be at the place for the interview in less than an hour. So you see I've got to have my jacket now. It's the only fine thing I've got. And I've got to look decent if I want this chap to like me."

The old tailor's strong sense of compassion started to slowly and steadily bring about a change in attitude. He still didn't like this man, and something within Marty continued to tell him that this Alfred Burke was not to be trusted. But still, Marty knew how hard it was to find work these days, and being the kindhearted person he was, he would hate to put a man out of a job. So, after one more scrutinizing look up and down the length of the customer, Marty relented and opened the door wide. "Come on in then," he said, stepping aside to let the other man in.

"Most kind," Burke said, entering the tailor shop.

Of course, Newkirk's and Harry's interest was piqued from the first moment they heard the famous thief knock against the window. Now, only a slight bit of eye contact was needed before Newkirk started to stand from the table. Harry was the only one who noticed as his friend left the room.

Newkirk left through the back door and went to stand in the alley-way where he and Burke had met last time. The young man waited patiently for a number minutes before Alfie finally rounded the corner with a freshly mended coat over his arm.

"I don't think that boss of yours really cares for me," he stated.

"He's a good man," Newkirk responded in quiet defense of his friend. "So what's the news then?"

"Yes, you're quite right. Business first." The infamous criminal glanced suspiciously around before he leaned in and said in a low tone, "There's been a change of plans. The caper's got to go down tonight."

"Tonight! Are you mad? Harry and I 'aven't even been told the plan yet! 'ow are we supposed to be ready by tonight?"

"It's not my responsibility to make sure you're 'ready'!" Alfie whispered harshly. He looked up at the younger man and sighed. He had to remember that this kid was still green and needed to be handled with a certain degree of gentleness. His tone softened as he said, "If it were my choice, lad, you'd have a year to prepare. But unfortunately, I have no say in the matter. My sources have informed me that the Air Marshal has alluded to possibly depositing his money into the bank soon. Tomorrow may be too late. It must be done tonight."

Newkirk still looked put out. He felt like he was rushing headlong into a stone wall, with Harry in tow. He wanted to just forget about the whole thing. But he could hardly do that without consulting Harry first. His friend had his heart set on those three thousand pounds. And now that Newkirk was reminded of the possible payoff, the risk somehow seemed to grow more trivial with each envisioned paper pound. He sighed in defeat. "How?" he asked.

Alfie reached into his pocket and pulled out a small map. "Meet me at this place at nine-thirty," he said, pointing to a place on the map. "Bring your friend…and wear black."

* * *

Newkirk was shaking in his dark-colored shoes when he and Harry met Alfie at the rendezvous point later that night. This was by far the most dangerous thing he had ever done. But it was a last desperate attempt at having a better life. The payoff from this job would benefit Newkirk's style of living by a thousand fold…or, more specifically, three thousand fold. Maybe, if he just had more money, he would be able to better himself to Stephanie's level. Maybe then, people would not judge them as a couple if they thought Newkirk was better off with his funds. And truly, with this kind of money, Peter could at least attempt to provide for Steph the type of royal standard of living to which she was accustomed. She wouldn't have to lower herself to be with him anymore. Yes, he was convinced this night, if successful, could only improve his life. He just hoped it didn't blow up in his face.

Alfie had concealed himself from view until he recognized the two young men approaching him. He stepped forward from the shadows, looking the other men up and down. "Yes, that shall do. You'll need a bit of face disguise later on, but for now, this shall do nicely."

Harry stepped forward, eyes wide and unflinching, as if in a daze. He reached forward like one sleep-walking and grasped Alfred Burke's hand. "It's an honor to meet you Mr. Alfie the Artist, sir," he said, dumbfounded.

Burke smiled at him awkwardly as he shook the young man's hand and then shot Newkirk a strange glance.

Newkirk just rolled his eyes with a small chuckle. He reached forward and pulled his friend back by his shoulder. "Come on, mate," he urged calmly. "We can hardly get through this fiddle without scrapes if you're busy bein' bewitched by Alfie 'ere. Get a 'old of yourself."

Harry was effectively pulled from his star-struck state, and stepped back with an admirable degree of composure.

"Right then," Alfie began, "Here's the situation: the safe is the Air Marshal's study on the second floor. To break into the house on ground level and sneak our way up to the study would be too risky. Therefore, we must break into the second floor."

Newkirk nodded and looked around the area of their small colloquy. "Where's the rope?" he asked, realizing the revered thief had brought with him no form of climbing instrument.

"We don't need one. The good Air Marshal shall provide our means on entrance. And that's where you lads come in."

Newkirk and Harry shared a look of confusion before the planner of this escapade chose to explain.

"You see, the Air Marshal's groundskeeper always stores the tools of his trade in a small work shed located at the corner of the property. In that shed, amongst other things, is a very fine ladder that shall suit our purposes just fine. The trick is that the groundkeeper also happens to lock the shed when he retires home for the night at approximately ten o'clock each night."

Harry glanced at his watch, holding it against the moon beams so he could read its face. "That's just in a few minutes," he said after some eye strain.

"That doesn't leave us much time," said Newkirk, moving in the direction where he assumed the large estate was located. To his surprise, the other man grabbed Newkirk's arm to still him. "Well, shouldn't we hurry to get the ladder before he closes it up?" Newkirk asked, his body language suggesting a desire to stop standing around and actually _do_ something.

Alfie shook his head, "No, that wouldn't do. We couldn't stand the risk of his noticing it was missing, or worse, catching us in the act. No, we must get it after he locks the shed. That's why we shall need your talent Master Newkirk; and your friend's as well, of course."

Realization dawned on Newkirk's features. "You want me to lift the man's keys off 'im?" he asked in surprise. He shook his head with a slight scoff. "I don't think so. Wallets and watches are one thing; at least they don't make any sound. But pinchin' a man's set of keys right off 'im 'as got to be a noisy business. He'll 'ear it for sure."

Alfie looked at Peter gravely. "He _mustn't_ hear it," he commanded slowly. "The whole operation depends on the two of you getting those keys."

Newkirk sighed in exasperation. It was like he could see that stone wall drawing closer and closer and Newkirk was still putting on full steam towards it. He shook his head mildly, "I don't know." Alfie grabbed Newkirk's shoulder firmly. It wasn't painful or threatening, but the young pickpocket could still feel the intensity conveyed in that grip.

"Listen," warned the older man, "If you don't think you can pull this off, then say it now and we can all walk away. I don't want to go to jail on account of you. If you do it, don't botch it up; but if you can't do it, say so now before all three of us are committed. You'll be keeping yourself from the money alright (and the both of us too, I might add), but you might also be keeping yourself from some time spent in the big house. I can't make you try it, nor can I make you succeed in it. But you've got to tell me right now, and you'd better me confident in your answer…can you do this?"

Newkirk stared at his own reflection in the thief's eyes as the man spoke. His brow was low and his expression stern. Newkirk turned slowly towards his partner and friend. Harry looked back and slowly nodded quiet encouragement. Newkirk, with clenched chest and deep breath, turned once more towards Alfred Burke. He breathed in the breath with which he would give his answer, then quietly, but confidently, he said, "Let's do it."

Smiles leapt to the faces of Harry and Alfie, and both respectively slapped his back and patted his shoulder in elation. "Splendid, boy, splendid!" the Artist said. "I'll leave the method of procuring those keys to you gents, but I'll show you where the groundskeeper always exits the estate, and then set you off to do your magic."

Harry laughed, "He really does, you know!"

Newkirk and Alfie slowly and simultaneously turned their gazes upon Harry, each cocking an eyebrow, neither cracking a smile.

Harry's broad and amused smile faded gradually, a look of nervous awkwardness replacing it. He made feeble attempts at explaining his humor, "Newkirk, you know…he really does…do…magic- you know what? Never mind." He gave his head one solid shake, as if flinging away the odd moment from time's memory.

"Right then," said Alfie after a long and strange look at the young man, "Follow me."

The trio stealthily made their way towards their target. As their troop advanced, Newkirk tried to ignore the feeling of apprehension growing in his gut.

* * *

Alright, there was chapter 18 (man, we're really truckin' along here!), I hope you enjoyed it. Please feel free to leave me a comment. And the next one should be up soon!

--Monker


	19. Mr Newkirk,in the Study,with The Artist

Sorry for the delay in posting this chapter. I wanted to make sure I had the canon inspiration at the end of the chapter correct before I posted. But here it is now! Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter Nineteen: Mr. Newkirk, in the Study, with The Artist

Newkirk and Harry waited by a lamppost for the groundskeeper to come by. Without looking too suspicious, they kept their eyes on the gate where Alfie said the gardener would exit.

"So what's the plan here?" Newkirk asked, bending over to take off his shoe.

Harry sighed, "Well, I'd say the two drunkards routine is the best bet, but we don't smell like booze to really sell it."

"Yeah, real pity that," Newkirk said. He removed his black sock and then reapplied the shoe. He took the sock and stuffed it into his sleeve, making sure it would be easy to pull out later. "Well, I don't care what routine it is. I've just got to 'ave a chance to put my 'ands on 'im. That's all that matters to me."

Harry looked thoughtful, "How about the sick friend bit? With a dash of askin' for directions thrown in?"

Newkirk returned to a standing position and dusted off the knees of his pants, "Sounds good."

Soon, the sound of the gate opening gained the attention of the two con-men.

Harry quietly muttered, "Showtime."

Newkirk just nodded, "Mhmm." And the two set out casually towards their target.

Harry reached a hand to the groundskeeper, gesturing for him to halt, "Hey there, mister…"

The blonde man slowed and turned to face them, "Yes?" he answered.

Harry smiled, "Listen, me friend and I are a bit lost."

Newkirk turned his head politely and sneezed rather loudly.

Harry gave him a fleeting look before turning back to the gardener. "Would you happen to know where the Red Lion pub is?"

"The Red Lion?" asked the gardener, "Sure, it's right down this street, then you turn right on Vincent." He gestured with his hand, pointing out each direction with a turn of his wrist.

Newkirk subtly took a step forward a faked a huge sneeze onto the helpful groundskeeper. "Oh! Oh, I'm so sorry!" Newkirk took another step forward and swiftly started swiping the other man's clothing, fussily pretending to clean his mess from the fabric. It took a few swipes before Newkirk discovered which pocket the keys were in, "I'm terribly sorry about that sir! I tried to catch it!" Newkirk continued. He angled his body to get a clear shot at the pocket. In three swift and fairly fluid movements, his hand was in and out, grasping the keys tightly in a fist. He made sure to be talking so that his voice would drown out the movements of the keys.

Newkirk turned his back to the man, pretending to feel another sneeze come on. As Harry offered another distraction, Newkirk silently removed the sock from his sleeve. He dropped the keys into the sock, timing a loud sneeze to cover the jingling, and then wrapped the rest of the sock around the keys to muffle their noise. Then, turning back to face Harry and the groundskeeper, Newkirk tucked the wad into his waistband, right at the base of his back.

Harry pretended to fuss some more over the gardener, "I'm really sorry about that, sir."

The man laughed slightly, "It's fine, it's fine. I'll just be changing out of these clothes when I get home anyway."

Harry nodded appreciatively towards the man. Then turning to Newkirk, he said, "You sure you're up for this, Randolph? You're not lookin' so good."

Newkirk wanted to wince at the name Randolph. Harry always picked the worst names to give Newkirk during these stunts. But he stayed in character and sniffed once, talking as if he had a stuffy nose as he responded, "No, no, it's your birthday, Mortimer. We need to celebrate. You only turn thirty-eight once, mate."

Harry ignored his friend's comment, "I don't think so. I should get you home. You're too sick to be out tonight." Then he grabbed Newkirk by the shoulders and started to turn him back the way they came. Newkirk gave one more sneeze, as if punctuating Harry's statement. Harry looked over his shoulder to say towards the groundskeeper, "Thanks for the help anyway!"

"No problem!" waved the gardener.

As the two men walked further and further away, Harry said quietly, "Well, now you've done it. He'll figure us out for sure."

Newkirk looked at his friend, "What do you mean?"

"Oh please, Newkirk! Do you really think he's going to buy for one moment that _I'm_ thirty-eight?"

Newkirk chuckled. He reached up and patted his friends round face. "You'll get over it…Mortimer."

* * *

Harry and Newkirk returned to Alfie with the keys. The experienced thief gave them each a black mask and instructed them to put it on. Once all three men were properly attired, they made their way to the shed. Getting the ladder out of the shed without causing undue noise was quite a challenge; but after coordinated efforts, the group finally managed to remove the tall ladder from the shed. It was then decided that Alfie and Newkirk would be the two to actually enter the house while Harry stayed as a lookout for trouble.

Agilely, once the coast was clear, the two thieves crossed the large yard of the mansion, carrying the ladder between them. Alfie chose their window of entrance and then instructed Newkirk to set up the ladder.

"Here, put these in your pocket, lad, til I need them," Alfie said, handing Newkirk several small items.

The young man examined them in the darkness and discovered that they were a small notebook, a pencil, and a stethoscope. He shoved them all into the pocket of his black jacket and then followed Alfie up the ladder. The angle from the ladder made it difficult to see what The Artist was doing, but Newkirk strained his neck to see Alfie's movements.

The older man took a little knife and quietly scratched a small square into the glass. Then he took a wad of some sort of gray putty and smeared it onto the square he had cut. The putty must have been terribly adhesive, for Alfie had only to pinch it solidly, pull, and the square broke free from the rest of the window with a quiet snap. He reached through the square hole and unlatched the window to let it swing freely open, then he climbed inside.

Newkirk gulped as he, too, climbed up the rest of the way and then shimmied through the window. Inside, the house was dark and quiet, save the ticking of some faithful clock. Almost instantly, the smell of old and well-loved books filled Newkirk's senses. _'We must be in the study,'_ Newkirk thought, and he was right. As his eyes adjusted, Newkirk could see the walls lined with shelves and shelves which housed hundreds of books. An enormous wooden desk sat at the end of the room. In the corner was a large globe, mounted on an expensive looking base. A few model airplanes decorated the study and many hunting trophies coated the walls; but located behind the desk was the object of their visit: the safe.

Slowly, Alfie and Newkirk crossed the room towards the safe. Newkirk continued to examine the study until a tap on his arm brought his mind back to the task at hand.

"Watch the door. I'll start on the safe," the man whispered.

Newkirk just nodded with a gulp. As he turned to leave, Alfie grabbed him gently to stop his movements.

"I'll be needing those tools now," he hinted quietly.

"Oh, right." Newkirk retrieved the three small items from his pocket and handed them to the safecracker. Then he moved to the door slowly, straining his eyes in the darkness to map out a safe course for his footing. He reached the door and placed both of his gloved hands against it. He slowly leaned in and pressed his ear against the door's cool surface. He closed his eyes to listen. A freezing chill shot up his spine when he heard voices in the distance. They were very quiet, obviously a far ways off, but they were voices nonetheless, and they terrified Newkirk. All that had to happen for disaster to occur was for those voices to grow slightly nearer, come through this door, and then he and Aflie would be had. He nervously remained by the door as he turned to watch The Artist at work.

Alfie used one hand to hold the plate of the stethoscope against the surface of the safe; with the other hand, he turned the dial of the safe at a painstakingly slow pace. After a little while, the man released the stethoscope, checked the position of the dial, and then scribbled something down on the small pad of paper. Then he resumed his previous position and continued to turn the dial slowly. He twisted it to the left, stopped and wrote something else on the pad, and then continued, this time, turning the dial to the right. This process continued for several minutes.

With each passing tick of the loud grandfather clock, Newkirk's palpitating heart seemed to double in pace. How long had it been? Twelve minutes? What if someone came in? What if the Air Marshal couldn't sleep and came to finish the half empty glass of scotch resting on the desk? The young thief could hardly retain his sanity. Visions of flashing police lights and handcuffs paraded through his brain, mocking his nerves with jovial glee. It was taking the ol' boy _far_ too long and Newkirk seriously considered, on numerous occasions, grabbing Alfie by the shoulder, saying, "Oh, toss it!" and making a dash for the window. But every time such thoughts would come into Newkirk's head, Alfie would make a sound like he was almost finished, or would whisper something under his breath that made Newkirk think the safe must nearly be opened; so Peter would think, _'I'll give him a few more minutes.'_

Those minutes piled one on top of the other, until the clock struck eleven o'clock. The chimes of the old grandfather clock seemed deafening to Newkirk, and his initial instinct was to smash the thing just to get it to shut up. But his rational side told him that such a noise would be expected in that house and it wasn't sounding an alarm to their presence at all. But amidst the overbearing chimes of the clock, Newkirk's ears imagined they heard a second noise. He pinned his head against the door again to listen carefully. He couldn't be sure, the chimes were too loud…but he thought he heard something.… Then the last gong died away and the second noise came bounding into the forefront of Newkirk's mind. He hadn't been imagining it at all! Footsteps were approaching!

"Someone's coming!" he hissed, knowing the "someone" was quickly nearing the door. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Newkirk registered that Alfie quickly sprang from his position and ducked underneath the desk. Peter turned and frantically looked for a place to hide. There were the window curtains. But could he risk a full sprint across the whole length of the room? He heard the footsteps reach to door. No! He had no time! Newkirk silently cursed the Air Marshal for not owning more large pieces of furniture. Knowing he had a matter of milliseconds, Newkirk pinned himself between two bookcases, standing as straight as possible and trying to melt into the wall at his back.

The door to the study opened.

* * *

**Author's Note:** So, for this chapter, I had to research how one might crack into a safe during the 1930's. I'm not even sure how many websites I visited, or how many safecracking tutorials I watched, but it was enough to make me rather nervous. It made me feel positively criminal! I hope that the police don't feel they need to monitor my internet activity now! Honestly, I'm a writer! It was just research! Anyway…now I'm a bit self-conscience, lol!

**Canon inspiration for this chapter:** In the episode "Two Nazis For The Price Of One", when London informs the Heroes that their operation has been compromised and then orders them to pack up and return to London.

Newkirk (to LeBeau and Carter): You know what I'm going to do, first thing we get home.

LeBeau: What?

Newkirk: I'm going to take you all around the Red Lion.

LeBeau: What's the Red Lion?

Newkirk: It's a pub. We'll have a beer.

**And:** In "The Safecracker's Suite", when Newkirk is describing Alfie the Artist to Hogan and the others…

Newkirk: I saw him work once. He's a right old wizard. His _hands_! What a touch! Hoo! His mum and dad _begged_ him to be a brain surgeon.


	20. Third Time's the Charm

Chapter Twenty: Third Time's the Charm

A large stream of light came flooding boldly into the study. Newkirk held his breath, although he felt like he were about to suffocate. The light was obstructed only by a single shadow…a human shadow. Slowly, the figure moved into the room and Newkirk pressed himself impossibly closer to the wall. As the man entered the room, his mammoth shadow shrunk slightly in size. Finally, he walked far enough into the study that he appeared in Newkirk's line of vision.

The man was dressed in a butler's uniform and held an empty serving tray. The butler paused by the door for a few moments. He was only six feet away from Newkirk and a chill shot up the crook's spine. After a few terrifying moments, the man walked purposefully over to the desk. Newkirk watched him with bated breath as the butler grabbed the glass and bottle of scotch and placed them on the tray. Then the butler turned to face Newkirk and the door.

It suddenly occurred to Newkirk that his eyes could reflect light. Instinctively, he clenched his eyes tightly shut before the butler turned completely around. Now, he had only his sense of hearing on which to rely. All of the sudden, the sound of his own heart seemed to be rattling the walls with its rhythm. The sweat that streamed down his face seemed to splash against the floor at frightening decibels. He knew he couldn't hold his breath any longer despite the fact that, this particular instance, his life probably _did_ depend on it. He tried to remain silent as he opened his mouth and slowly exhaled, but to Newkirk, it sounded like air wheezing out of a giant tire.

He wondered if, at that moment, the butler was standing right in front of him, staring him in the eye. But Newkirk didn't dare to open his eyes. He just stood there and hoped that the shadows would conceal him and the light would blind the butler. Newkirk strained to listen to the sounds of the room. Once again, the grandfather clock seemed deafening as it named each passing second with a _tick_ or a _tock_. But, if he concentrated, Newkirk could just barely make out the sound of footsteps.

He gulped. This was it. He had been spotted and now the butler was approaching him. Oh, how he wished he had never let Harry talk him into this stupid deal! It was all for nothing. Now he was going to get caught and dragged off to prison for who knows how long! And he'd never be able to see Marty or Nina again…and poor Harry would be sitting out in those woods for hours until he realized what must have happened. And he'd never get to see Stephanie again. None of his friends would even be able to contact her to tell her what happened. He would be trapped in prison, and she would never know what had become of him. It was all over.

Newkirk jolted in surprise when he suddenly heard the door close. He remained against the wall for a few moments, too scared to move. He heard Alfie ask quietly, "Is it safe?" Newkirk then forced himself to open his eyes.

It was dark again. He nervously peered around the room. It seemed to be empty. Alfie was evidently still under the desk and Newkirk realized it was _his_ job to make sure the coast was in fact clear. Gulping once, he moved slowly away from the wall. His gaze moved to the crack of light below the door. There were no breaks in the slim beam of light, so no one appeared to be standing outside the door. Cautiously, Newkirk approached the door, wetting his lips absently before he pressed his ear against the cool surface once again. He heard footsteps moving away from the study. He waited until he thought the steps were far enough away and then let loose a long-awaited sigh. He turned back towards the desk. "He's gone," he said in a hushed tone.

Alfie emerged from the desk with raised eyebrows. He glanced around the room and then he too sighed. Then, looking at Newkirk, he said, "I trust you won't let them get that close again?"

The young thief shook his head and wiped a sleeve across his brow, "No."

And then, both men resumed their previous positions. Alfie went back to the safe and Newkirk pressed his ear against the door once more. Now Newkirk realized why Alfie kept pausing every few seconds to take notes. All he had to do was refer back to his notepad and then pick up right where he left off. After a few minutes that seemed the length of days, Newkirk heard the old man mutter, "One of these should do it."

Newkirk turned towards the safe and strained his neck to watch as the safecracker dialed the combination. It was wrong.

"Tough gal, aye?" Alfie remarked.

Newkirk gave a crooked smile in the darkness. He thought it was amusing that the old man talked to the safe.

"Let's try this one then," the thief continued, dialing the second possible combination. It failed.

"Third time's the charm?" Newkirk whispered hopefully as Alfie tried the third combination.

Both thieves held their breath. The dial turned slowly, the quiet clicking of the tumblers sounding like the slow shuffling of playing cards. The third combination was incorrect.

Alfie muttered something indistinguishable under his breath before consulting the note pad for the fourth and final combination that might open the safe. Newkirk pinched his lips together nervously. He knew that if this combination was wrong, Alfie would have to start all over again. And after that near miss with the butler, neither thief was anxious to remain in that house a moment longer than needed.

The Artist slowly and deliberately turned the dial to the right…then to the left…then back to the right again…and then back towards the left. Then, finally, a faint _click_ shot into the quiet room –the shelves of books swiftly absorbing its echo with one, greedy gulp. Alfie gave an impish sort of chuckle as he forcefully pulled down on the handle and the safe came swinging open with a quiet squeak. The Artist whistled softly as his eyes beheld their prize.

One could hardly blame Newkirk for abandoning his post at that moment. With gaping mouth and curious eyes, he stepped forward and came up behind Alfie.

But the experienced thief quickly noticed his partner's mistake. "No, no," he said, reaching into his black jacket and pulling forth a dark, fabric bag. "I shall handle this. You don't leave that door."

With a great deal of self-control, Newkirk returned to the study door and continued to listen for trouble. But only half of his mind was focusing on the sounds of the hallway; the other half of his focus was trained on every thump that sounded through the room as Alfie dropped each individual bundle of money into the sack. He started counting them but he lost track as Alfie hurried and started putting them in the sack multiples at a time. When Newkirk heard the safe close again he looked over his shoulder towards Alfie. He saw the crook give the dial of the safe one last spin and then wipe the whole thing with a few swipes of a handkerchief.

"Alright my boy," Alfie whispered, "now we're off!"

Newkirk nodded and the pair gingerly made their way out the window, down the ladder, and then swiftly across the yard until they reached the woods where faithful Harry was waiting.

With controlled excitement, the three snuck off into the night.

* * *

Alfie took the two young men to a secret place in order to split the money fairly. In a dark room, the thieves sat hunched around a small table and chuckled to themselves as they took their time counting each stack of money. When they had split the prize between them, each man had three thousand, six hundred and twenty-two pounds to take home.

When they had finished, Alfie leaned back on his stool with a pleased smile on his face. He sighed exasperatedly before saying, "Well, lads…it was a pleasure doing business with you!" He leaned forward and offered Harry his hand.

After a nudge from Newkirk, Harry lifted his eyes from his stack of money, "Oh!" he said, shaking The Artist's hand with vigor.

Alfie smiled and then moved to shake Newkirk's hand. "A real pleasure," he said with a wink. "We should do this again sometime."

Newkirk firmly shook the other man's hand, a look of wonder and admiration on his face. "We really should," he replied.

Then Alfie stood from the small stool and dusted dirt from his pants. "Well," he said, "You chaps are welcome to stay here as long as you like. But as for me, I think I'll be off. Too-ti-loo!"

"Bye then!" Harry said, turning his attention back to fingering his bundles of money.

"Cheers!" Newkirk said. Then glancing back at Harry, he said, "We ought to be gettin' back, mate."

Harry looked up at his friend, a sudden realization dawning on his face. "Newkirk," he said, "What are we going to do with all this money?"

Peter grinned wildly, "I'm sure we can come up with somethin'!"

Harry shook his head, "No, I mean…what are we goin' to do with it right now? We can't take all this 'ome. There's no way we could get it past Marty and Nina."

Newkirk's brows lowered in thought. "Hmm…" he said, reaching up to pinch his chin, "You're right about that…"

The pair finally decided that they would each take a few bundles and hide them in their pockets. Then, they would find a secure location and hide the rest of the money. Whenever they needed it after that, they could always return and withdraw a few more bundles. They decided this was a good idea. It would keep them from doing anything too foolish with the large amounts of currency. So they searched the surrounding area and finally found a place that they both agreed was safe. It was an old abandoned wheelbarrow, leaning against a tree. It was far enough away from typical civilization that the odds of someone coming across it randomly were very slim; and the wheelbarrow itself was old enough that its owner was never likely to reclaim it. So, wrapping the money in Harry's jacket, which the thief said was old and could be easily replaced now, they buried the money under some leaves and then covered the mound with the wheelbarrow. After they had stashed the money, both crooks swore to each other that they would never take the entirety of the money, or change its location without consulting with the other party. After that, the pair walked home with smug grins on their faces and fulfilled hands tenderly stroking the bundles in their pockets.

* * *

**Canon Inspiration for the chapter:** The fact that Newkirk likes to talk to the safe as he cracks into it. He got that habit from Alfie. As far as episodes go, I believe there a at least a couple that show Newkirk doing this.

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this chapter and I look forward to your feedback!

-Monker


	21. What's in a Name?

**Author's Note:** A big apology is in order, I regret. I had company visiting all last week and a bit before that as well. So my hosting duties had to take priority, and updating this story unfortunately became delayed. But, now all of my lovely relatives have returned to their respective homes, and that means that WE may return to this little story here! Hopefully the wait wasn't too terrible. I don't think I left you on a particularly evil cliffhanger, but anyway, I digress. Here is the next instalment! Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter Twenty One: What's in a Name?

Stephanie walked into the dining hall behind her sister, Vivian. "Good morning, Father…Good morning, Mother," each daughter said, approaching both parents and giving them a morning kiss on the cheek. Then the two sisters took their respective places at the table for the morning meal. It was a custom in that house to share the morning and evening meals together as a family. After breakfast, each family member would usually go their separate ways until the next meal. The Duke would head off to his study or to the country club. The Duchess would usually go out to visit friends or charity fundraisers; she was terribly active in the community. Vivian had been accompanying her mother more and more in the recent years, trying to merge into the adult society of London with grace, but she occasionally would head out for some fun event with her large circle of friends. And over the past few weeks, Stephanie had always left after breakfast to meet with Peter…and all of the magazines and newspapers had the photos to prove it.

Stephanie and Peter, it seemed, had become the main gossip item of the city. It was getting harder and harder for them to meet secretly without people taking their picture or trying to get Peter to disclose his name. To the people of London, he was still the "Mystery Man" who regularly spent his evenings in the company of the Duke's youngest daughter. Fortunately though, the young couple _still_ had the rooftops. At least there they were still safe.

As Stephanie sat and waited for her breakfast to be served, she took for herself a small muffin and started buttering its top. She glanced up at her Father and winced. There was yet another photograph of her and Peter on the front of the newspaper the Duke was reading.

Vivian evidentially noticed the picture at the same moment, "Oh, have they printed a new one?" she asked excitedly. "Father, when you are finished, may I please see that paper?" she asked. Then, towards her younger sister, she added, "I'm making a collection."

Stephanie wanted to groan, but she didn't. "I noticed," she said simply.

Stephanie's mother, Harriet, smirked lightly. "It seems you have been seeing this 'mystery man' for quite a while now," she mused, buttering her muffin the very same way as her daughter.

Stephanie grew tense. "For a while," she echoed.

"I must say, Stephanie, he is rather handsome!" Vivian commended with a giggle. She was utterly enjoying this newly discovered rebellious side of her sister's.

Stephanie couldn't help but smile softly in agreement, a healthy shade of pink rising to her cheeks.

Harriet and Vivian both eyed each other knowingly. "Would you say you two are getting serious?" Harriet gently asked.

The movements of Stephanie's butter knife froze for the briefest of seconds, and then she continued to hastily spread the substance over the muffin. "Serious in what way, mother?" she asked, trying to sound casual. Stephanie really didn't want to be having this conversation. Dash it all, where _was_ that breakfast? She needed something to occupy her mouth.

"You know perfectly well which way I mean, Stephanie. Don't be coy," her mother replied.

Stephanie glanced at her father, but his face was still concealed behind the paper. She cleared her throat and tried to think of the best response. "I don't take sport in dealing with men's hearts, mother. So if the opposite of that would be what you call 'serious', then yes…we are quite serious."

Again, the Duchess shared a meaningful glance with her eldest daughter.

"Well, I for one am terribly intrigued by this Mystery Man, whose name happens to begin with the letter P," Vivian stated, opting to cover her muffin in jam rather than butter. "I think it's terribly romantic that you insist on keeping him a mystery. But really now, Stephanie…we're your own family! If indeed your two are as 'serious' as you say you are, don't you think it's fair to disclose his identity to _us_?"

Stephanie took a large bite of the muffin, determined to chew slowly. Eventually, she had to swallow. She took in a deep breath, and was about to speak…when she decided it was time for a drink of water. She licked her lips quietly, staring at the water, and then took another sip. She continued this behavior until she had drank all of her water. But with the draining of the glass, Stephanie's excuse for silence also vanished. She put down her empty glass and looked up.

Her mother and sister were still staring at her expectantly. Stephanie even thought she noticed a hint of amusement on their faces. Her father's face was still hidden by the curtain of news. She licked her lips again and said, "That is certainly fresh water." Then, turning her head over her shoulder she called towards one of the butlers, "Cumberly, congratulate the cook. It is particularly crisp water today. May I have some more?"

As the butler moved towards the kitchen, Stephanie nervously returned attention to her family. She was hopeful that that would be enough of a diversion to make them forget the original question. She had no such luck. Both her mother and her sister were still expecting an answer. Stephanie cleared her throat and looked to Vivian, "I'm sorry, sister. What was that you were saying?"

Vivian answered simply, "I was asking you the name of your Mr. P."

"Oh," Stephanie tried to act nonchalant as she daintily dabbed water from the corners of her mouth. "Well…Not that it's any monumental thing but…his name is Peter," she said casually.

Vivian drew in a happy gasp and clapped her hands together excitedly. "A name!" she exclaimed with glee.

Harriet just nodded her head approvingly, "Peter…that is a very good name." She wanted to seem encouraging so that her daughter might feel inclined to share more. She had been rehearsing this moment for a while now.

Stephanie nodded, "Indeed."

Then the food arrived and Stephanie thanked God it didn't come a moment later. The family quietly began to eat their meal. Once they had begun, Stephanie finally started to relax, feeling certain that the subject of Peter had been dropped.

But just as Stephanie was preparing to take a sip of her tea, Harriet turned towards her and asked, "So, when shall we get the chance to meet Peter?"

Stephanie's gasp made her suck in the tea too quickly and she burned her lip. She also managed to get the hiccups at that same moment. She clumsily set her teacup down and dabbed her mouth politely, her shoulders jumping slightly at each little erupting hiccup. "Oh," she said at last, "You want to—_hic_—meet him?"

Vivian picked up her sister's glass of water and said quietly, "Here, pinch your nose and then take a sip of this, remarkably 'crisp', water."

Stephanie took the water, but gave her sister a look of warning, only to be rewarded by a teasing smile from Vivian.

Harriet replied, "Of course we'd like to meet him. It is clear that this Peter has succeeded in winning your affections. Since you are evidently so serious in your relationship, I think it's about time your father and I got the chance to meet this young man of yours."

Stephanie glanced over at her father. He had lowered the newspaper in order to eat, but he still did not look at anyone at the table. His face was scowling as he scrutinized the food on his plate with apparent disapproval. Stephanie wondered if he was really that displeased with the eggs, or if the conversation was the _real_ reason for his irritation.

She looked back at her mother and her mind started to swirl. They wanted to meet Peter? When? Where? Would he even approve of that? That was a pretty large step in their relationship. Was he even ready to something that big?

"Oh, come now sister, you don't plan to keep him from us forever!" Vivian said. "You are serious about your relationship, aren't you?" she asked.

"Of course," Stephanie replied, head still spinning.

"Then he must meet your family at some point."

"Well, I don't know," Stephanie said befuddled. "I think I should speak with Peter first, before I agree to anything."

Then, for the first time since the meal began, Stephanie's father spoke. "It's a lost cause, my dears," he said towards Vivian and his wife. "The boy will not come to meet us."

"And why not?" Harriet asked.

"Because he is a coward," the Duke stated, as if it were the most fundamental thing in the world.

Stephanie gasped. "That's not true, father," she said with shock, trying her best to defend the man she loved.

The Duke leaned forward on the table and looked his daughter square in the eye. "Then why does he hide in the shadows? For two weeks it's gone on this way, Stephanie," he slapped a hand over the face of the newspaper lying abandoned on the table. "Two weeks! And he still does not come forward with his name. By now, the whole country wants to know the identity of this boy and he continues to hide! You two sneak off everyday to do God knows what-"

"Arnold!" Harriet chided.

But the Duke didn't miss a beat. "…and the boy never comes forward, not even _once_, to declare himself an honorable member of society. Meanwhile, the papers are dashing _your_ reputation on every page!"

"I don't care what they say of me," Stephanie said defiantly.

"Oh, but you should! You certainly should. They're telling scandalous stories of you two…and I'm tempted to believe half of them myself."

"Arnold, that's enough!" Harriet exclaimed.

"Well it's true, Harriet! Respectable couples have nothing to hide. Only the guilty ones lurk in the shadows. I'm telling you now, that boy is_ no_ gentleman…and I have no interest in meeting him."

Stephanie wanted to cry. Every insult directed towards Peter felt like a stab to her own heart. She so wanted her father to just understand, to give Peter the true chance he deserved. "Peter is a fine man, father!" she protested.

"I won't believe it. Fine men do not behave the way this 'Peter' is behaving. He's taking advantage of you. He's only interested in the fame he can get by being seen with you."

Stephanie's emotions had been churning and bubbling up inside of her until they all came flooding out at that moment. Moisture rose to her eyes as she exclaimed fervently, "That's a lie! Peter is not like that, father! He is warm and kind and sincere! He loves me and he did even before he knew who my family was. He's not interested in fame or money or anything like that. He's interested in _me_! And Peter has _nothing_ to hide. He's a good and honest man. Just because he's shy does not mean that he's guilty of some terrible sin. He's a good man!" Then turning towards her mother Stephanie said, "Lady Denimore's coming-out party is on the 8th, is that right?"

Harriet quickly nodded, feeling a bit confused.

"Then _that_ is when you shall meet him," Stephanie said firmly. She turned her attention back to her father and stressed, "And he _will_ come."

* * *

A tall man in a long black coat stood in the center of the study, his hands clasped behind his back. He stared at the small square hole in the window and then slowly turned to approach the safe. He carefully examined the surface of the safe. No scratches, no holes. The thief must have either known the combination, or he must have been able to crack it. This was a well made safe. The perpetrator must have been an expert safecracker. The man's eyebrows lowered slightly as his eyes landed on a small piece of paper by the foot of the safe. He slowly crouched to grab the paper.

"Inspector Price?" a voice spoke from behind him. "The boys have found some imprints in the flower bed below the window, but they don't appear to be made by shoes, sir."

"A ladder, Mr. Swanson. The thief used a ladder to reach the window." It was all falling into place now. The ladder, the etched out glass, the complete lack of evidence on the safe itself. This case was looking more and more like the work of The Artist. As Inspector Price unfolded the small piece of paper, a grin spread across his face. Yes, he would catch that artist this time, because in his hand, the Inspector held a small yellowish paper which read, _4 wallets, 1 watch, 1 chain, total 35 pounds. Terri's Pawnshop._

* * *

**Author's Note:** I'm a big fan of classic literature, and O'Henry has become one of my favorite crime writers in the very recent years. So the character in this closing scene, Inspector Price, is named after a detective in one of O'Henry's stories. O'Henry's character was called Ben Price, and he is featured in the short story, "A Retrieved Reformation". It's a wonderful, quick little read, and I encourage you all to look it up sometime.

There you are, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I really wanted to just take a moment and explore Stephanie's family life a bit more, show that her dealings with Peter had not gone unnoticed but the Duke and his family and that their curiosities had been engaged. Anyway, I had a lot of fun with this scene and am anxious to know what you thought, so please let me know. :o)

-Monker


	22. Peter's Fear

Chapter Twenty Two: Peter's Fear

Newkirk stared at Stephanie, his face frozen in a shocked expression.

She had been wondering the best way to tell him and had eventually decided to just be blunt about it. But evidently, she was a little too blunt when she casually mentioned, "Oh, by the way, my parents want to meet you."

His eyelids seemed to thaw first, granting him the dexterity to blink a few times at her, mouth still gaping.

She simply sat still and twiddled her thumbs, glancing awkwardly around their rooftop hideaway, waiting for him to say something.

Finally, when his voice returned, it squeaked out in a feeble, "The Duke and D-Duchess…they want to meet _me_?"

Stephanie nodded, "And my sister Vivian, actually. They all want to meet you." Stephanie decided not to tell Newkirk the nasty things her father had said, or how he had even indicated an _aversion_ to meeting Newkirk. With how Peter was taking things so far, she thought it would be wise to refrain from sharing those particular bits of information.

She watched as Peter's eyes dropped and he stared at the ground beneath him. She could practically see the wheels turning in his head and she wished she could hear his thoughts. Stephanie became a bit nervous when she saw him slowly start to shake his head. But he didn't protest verbally. He just continued to shake his head at some unknown thought.

She reached over and grabbed his hand, rubbing the back of it gently to comfort him. "I love you, Peter," she said. "And, as strange as they can be sometimes, I love my family as well. If this relationship is going to go further, I don't think we'll be able to remain in the shadows for much longer."

With a lift of his chin, their gazes collided. Stephanie could see the turmoil and fear buried in those green eyes. He was obviously very distraught about this. She reached forward and lovingly cupped his cheek. "But I won't make you do anything you don't want to do," she said.

He pulled her hand from his face, kissed it once, and then held it in his hands as he replied, "No, that's not it. I just…well, you said so yourself that I wasn't exactly the sort of bloke they 'ad in mind, remember?"

"Yes, but I don't care about the 'sort they had in mind'!" she said, rolling her eyes.

Peter sighed and his eyes dropped once more. With another small shake of the head, he said, "I don't know, Steph. I'm not…"

Her eyebrows rose, "Not what?"

He hiked his shoulders, trying to form the words to describe what he was feeling. "I'm not the man they want for you," he finally admitted. "They wouldn't approve."

Her face softened and she readjusted her position to be sitting side by side with him. She kissed the side of his neck before leaning her head against his shoulder and reaching up to grab his arm gently. "Of course they'll approve of you, Peter," she encouraged softly. "You're clever, and funny. You're kind and gentle and you're always so sweet. You're good and honest and you get along with people. But of all your wonderful qualities, the one that will stand out to them the most…" grabbing his chin, she turned his head so she was looking him in the eye, "is that you love me." She smiled as she pulled him closer and lovingly kissed his lips.

When they pulled apart, she continued, "And that quality will surely win them over."

He slowly smirked and then looked down towards the ground to consider her words. "Alright," he breathed at last, "I'll do it."

Stephanie sighed with relief.

"Have you got a date in mind?" he asked, knowing full well she probably did.

She sat up and clasped her hands in her lap, "As a matter of fact…"

'_Uhhuh,'_ Newkirk thought with a grin, _'I thought you might.'_

"There's this family friend of ours, Bethany Denimore—adorable red curls, but rather unfortunate dumpy ankles—"

Newkirk snorted at the odd commentary.

"She is being launched into society on the 8th and her family is throwing her the customary coming-out party. I thought that you could join me and my family for the event."

"A party?" Peter questioned. "Like a public event? With dancin' and crowds all formal like?"

She nodded her head with a grin. "Yes, it will be a smash! I even know that His Majesty and Her Highness have been invited!" she said excitedly.

Newkirk's eyes just about bulged out of his head and he sprang to his feet, "Whoa there, Steph! You need to slow down! Now we're talkin' about meetin' the _King_?"

She looked thoughtful, "Well, I suppose he _could_ come over to say hello, but he usually doesn't. Her Highness on the other hand is very sociable. You'll likely get a chance to meet her."

Newkirk's mouth dropped as he turned away from Stephanie and began pacing. Both of his hands went up to run through his hair. "I can't believe this," he said under his breath.

Stephanie observed him curiously with a tilt of her head. "What's wrong, Peter?" she asked innocently.

He spun around to face her, his expression wild and unbelieving. "Well, Stephanie!" he exclaimed, "This is quite a different thing we're talkin' about now, isn't it? I mean, now you don't want to just introduce me to _your_ family, but the Royal bloody Family as well! And at some formal ball, full of Nobles and cameras and…Don't you think you're father would be enough of a challenge to me? I mean, shouldn't I 'ave some sort of practice go before _I'm_ launched into your 'igh society?"

Stephanie smiled and shook her head, "No, no. You don't understand. The fact that this is your first time meeting my family is _precisely_ why I want it to be at a public event."

Newkirk looked confused as he shook his head impatiently.

"You see, father would never act rudely in public, especially if he knew reporters were about. All of those cameras will guarantee that he behaves himself. You see?"

Newkirk sighed and turned away from her once again. He resumed his pacing as he tried to get his mind to slow down long enough to actually consider what Stephanie was saying.

But how _could_ he even consider it? It was absurd! _Him_? At some event with _Royalty_? It was unthinkable! The most formal event Newkirk had ever attended was his grandmother's funeral when he was seven. He didn't know how he was supposed to behave at a coming-out party. What if he said or did the wrong thing? What if he didn't look right or sound right? His whole relationship with Stephanie could be ruined!

Newkirk huffed at himself as he walked away from Stephanie. He just needed time to think. Pensively, he approached the edge of the roof, where a waist-high wall had been built to prevent accidents. He leaned against the wall and gazed down at the London streets below him. It was such a big world. There were so many people. Countless buildings and houses spotted the countryside, blotting out what was once grass and tree and covering it with brick and stone. But for every building he saw, there were likely to be anywhere from ten to a hundred times more people. It was a never ending growth and multiplication system. The people would grow in number, and the buildings would grow in height.

And now, in the hands of each person, and on the footsteps of each building, was a newspaper with Newkirk's picture plastered over the front. He had tried to be strong, for Stephanie's sake at the beginning; but the longer this raged on, the harder it was for Newkirk to keep his sanity. He never appreciated it before, but he was content living as an unnoticed ant in the midst of that enormous colony. He enjoyed living "in the shadows" as Stephanie called it; which was odd, because, for his whole professional career as a magician, Newkirk had been eagerly anticipating the day when he would become famous and everyone would know his name. Well now he was famous, and even though no one knew his name, they recognized him at a single glance. It wasn't the sort of fame he had wanted.

He and Stephanie were hounded. They could no longer go out together at any other location except this rooftop. And even then, they had to be secretive and strategic so that they wouldn't be followed. Often, they would plan to come separately, from two different directions, never repeating the same route twice. Sometimes they even tried to disguise themselves because the riddle of the Mystery Man was driving the public crazy and people would follow them persistently, demanding Newkirk's name. He was grateful, at least, that this was not the case with most people. Most Londoners would not behave that way, but the few who were the exception were relentless. He was being worn thin and he didn't know if he could go on this way for much longer.

But maybe attending this ball would be a good idea. Perhaps, accompanying Stephanie to a public event such as this would mean an end to the hysterics. And he would be able to be seen with her once more without the attached abuse from the public. And he so longed for that. He felt like his relationship with her had caused her to live the life of a fugitive, running and hiding. He felt guilty for this life he had forced her into.

But Newkirk just couldn't shake the idea of being in the same room as the King and Queen of his country. Something about that prospect just scared him to his core. He was just a nobody. He never won any awards, never had an important job. He dropped out of school when he was fifteen and his father kicked him to the curb. He grew up on the streets with not so much as a sixpence in his pocket, and _he_ was going to being a fellow party guest of the _King_? He wouldn't admit it to anyone, but by just thinking about it, Newkirk was frightened.

Suddenly, he became aware of a presence approaching him from behind. He turned his head slightly in acknowledgement as Stephanie quietly clung to his arm and rested her head against his shoulder. She had waited a long time before coming to check on him. Newkirk smiled, _'She knows me so well.'_

For a long moment, the pair was silent. They observed the city's busy evening with calm and pensive expressions.

Then, after a while of silence, Stephanie spoke softly, "I'm sorry to have upset you. I realize now that that was a lot to bombard you with in one conversation."

He sighed and shook his head softly, realizing once again how much he loved this woman. She was so good, and so kind. He reveled in their differences. He had never been with a woman even remotely like Stephanie, and he was certain she had never been with a man like him. They were so different. They came from two, distinctly different worlds. And yet, they were so happy together. When it was just them, their worlds blended together in happy bliss. But could that bliss still be maintained in the real world? When he and she were suddenly in the middle of a public, formal event, could his lower class and her upper class still blend so smoothly? Or would he be a drop of oil in her bowl of water?

"Oh, Steph," he sighed, allowing his head to drop onto hers with a small clunk. "I don't know that I can do this," he admitted sadly. When she didn't respond, he realized that she must be allowing him time to explain. So with a heavy sigh, he continued, "I'm no noble, Steph. I've not grown up in these parties and balls like you 'ave. I wouldn't know the first thing about greetin' royalty or talkin' to a bunch of politicians. Knowin' me big mouth, I'd say something off cuff and get your 'ole family thrown out of the joint. I just…I don't think I could make it in that world."

"Oh tosh!" Stephanie exclaimed when he was done. "You would do fine in that world. Once you get past the fancy clothes and the silly egos, those people are nothing to be intimidated by. And if you're nervous about what, or what not, to say then I can help you through that. But I think you'll do perfectly fine."

Newkirk was still uncertain. "I'm not the bloke people want for you. They want a fairytale wedding for you. And do I look like any Prince Charmin' you've ever seen?" he asked skeptically.

She lifted her head and examined him closely. She looked from his head to his toes and back again. At least she said, "Admittedly, no."

Newkirk gave an agreeing expression that said, "I prove me point."

But then Stephanie drew in closer, causing him to change his position to face her, and she made her way into a hug. "But," she said, reaching to clasp her hands behind his back and hold him close, "I would say that's the fault of the illustrators for all those story books. They got it wrong."

Newkirk held her in his arms and stared down at her. He shook his head in wonderment that someone so sweet and beautiful could love him so much. He raised his eyebrows softly, "I love you so much," he said quietly.

"And I love you," she answered.

He leaned down and kissed her once on the tip of the nose…and then twice…then he moved down to kiss her fully on the lips. When they pulled apart sometime later, he gave a heavy sigh and then finally consented. "Alright, I'll do it."

* * *

Hope you enjoyed this! Please feel free (and encouraged) to leave a review!


	23. The Cockney's New Clothes

Chapter Twenty Three: The Cockney's New Clothes

When Newkirk returned home, he was slightly surprised to find Nina was the only one in the shop. "Where is everyone?" he asked.

"I haven't a clue where Harry is. Seems that boy's been staying out later and later these past few days. But Martin is running an errand for me. I need a tomato for the soup I want to make tonight," the old girl explained, cleaning the dried food off of the wooden table in the back of the shop.

Newkirk nodded. "Do you need any help?" he offered.

"Of course, Peter. How sweet of you!"

So Newkirk helped her tidy up the work benches and sweep the floor. The whole while, he quietly kept to himself and said hardly three words.

Nina observed him and noticed his strange silence. Despite being a private person, Peter was not typically a quiet one. She was intrigued by his silence and finally decided to ask him about it. "Peter dear?" she asked.

He glanced up at her but kept sweeping.

"What's on your mind?"

His motions stilled and he looked at her fully, "What do you mean?"

Nina hiked her shoulders, "I don't know. You just seem as though you have something on your mind. You were pursing your lips the way you do when you're thinking hard about something."

Newkirk smiled, this woman knew him so well. "Actually, I was just thinkin' about Stephanie."

Nina returned the grin. How did she know that would be the answer? "Oh! And how is your sweet girl?"

Newkirk laughed. "Still sweet," he answered.

Nina nodded but kept watching him expectantly, inviting him to continue.

"Actually," he began hesitantly. "She mentioned somethin' kind of interestin' today."

"Oh yes?"

"Yeah…she said…" he turned and continued to sweep, "she thinks it would be a good time for me to meet 'er parents soon." Peter didn't have to look at Nina to know her reaction.

With a loud gasp and much clapping of the hands, Nina exclaimed, "Oh Peter, that's wonderful! When shall the happy day be?"

He kept sweeping, "In a few days. There's this party she wants to go to."

"A party? Oh splendid! And her parents are sure to be there?"

"Oh yeah. One of their family-friends is bein' launched into society, so 'er mum and dad are throwin' 'er a party."

Her smile seemed to grow impossibly bigger, "It's a coming out party? Oh that shall be terribly exciting, Peter!" Then suddenly she gasped, a hand coming up to touch her round cheek, "But, my goodness, that will be a rather formal event! Do you own a suit?"

Newkirk's brow furrowed, "A what?" He didn't know why he asked that question. He had heard her fine. He was just stunned because he hadn't thought about that particular aspect of the situation. But truth be told, he wasn't very worried about it. He never was one who cared much about fashion anyway.

"Oh, Peter, you shall need a suit," she chided seriously.

"I know, I just never really thought about it before," Newkirk confessed.

Just then, the bell above the front door announced an arrival. "Hello dear! I got your tomato," Marty greeted cheerily, entering the tailor shop with a small paper bag in his hand.

Nina frantically waved away her husband's interruption, "Oh, toss the tomato!"

Marty's pleasant face dropped into a puzzled expression. "Toss the tomato? Certainly not. I just spent a whole guinea on this, which is absolutely mad by the way. Nina, we're not shopping at that place on Vincent Street anymore. The place is highway robbery," he grumbled.

Nina rolled her eyes, "Oh, who cares about that, Martin?"

Marty smirked. He could tell that his wife was vexed over something and he was perfectly confident that whatever was troubling her was likely something very trivial. "Well, my coin purse cared a great deal," he mumbled as he approached the pair.

"This is serious, Martin! Peter has a crisis at hand!"

Marty cocked an eyebrow towards Peter who just shrugged his shoulders apathetically, eliciting a small laugh from the old tailor.

"You see," Nina went on desperately, "He's going to meet the parents of that dear little girl, and-"

"Oh are you now?" Marty asked with a pleased smile on his face.

Newkirk simply nodded.

"Congratulations, that's a big step!" Marty said, offering the young man his hand. Newkirk took it gladly.

Nina, who was still quite distraught, reclaimed her husband's attention and then continued frantically, "But the trouble is, he hasn't got a _thing_ to wear! It's going to be at another young lady's coming out party and he doesn't have a fine enough suit!" She gasped at the horror of her own news.

Marty smiled and shook his head at his silly wife. "That's your crisis?" he laughed. "It's no crisis at all! Why, the boy _lives_ in a tailor shop!" Then turning to Newkirk he said, "We have many fine suits here, Peter. Get on the stool, I'll measure you."

At first, Newkirk was reluctant; but at the older man's insisting, Newkirk finally ascended the stool and posed to be measured. Marty did the main measurements himself, and then left the specifics to his wife as he set about finding the proper materials.

Nina draped the measuring tape over Newkirk's chest. "How do you like pinstripes, Peter?" she asked.

He hiked his shoulders, "I don't care much for sewin' them."

Nina scoffed, "Well you won't be sewing them; you'll be wearing them. How do you like them to wear?"

Again, he hiked his shoulders, "They look fine I guess."

"This is what I'm thinking Peter," Marty began, holding up some fabric. "This would be your shirt. Nice, crisp white color, right? And run your hand over that. Feel how soft that is? It won't become itchy as the night wears on. You should stay nice and comfortable. And the buttons would be these," he picked up a small bowl and showed it to Newkirk. "The black will offer a nice contrast to the white of the shirt." He laid the fabric and buttons back on the bench and held up another roll of cloth, "This shall be your blazer. You can see it, too, is white…"

"Oh, Peter, You're going to look so sharp!" Nina said excitedly.

"As for the fabric itself, this breathes nicely, so you'll be able to dance in it without getting too hot. As for the trousers, I was thinking black for the color but I have several possible fabrics for you to look-"

"Marty, Marty, please," Newkirk said, holding up his hands to get his friends to stop fussing over him. The older couple halted and they both stared at him in question. "This is all really kind, but I know how much this fabric costs you. I don't want you wasting all your valuable fabric on me."

"Oh come now, Peter. It's hardly wasteful. This shall be my best suit ever."

"Well at least let me pay for it," Newkirk pleaded.

Nina got back to work, "Oh, don't be absurd. You don't owe us anything." Then, coming around to stand behind Newkirk, she added, "Think of it as an early wedding present."

Newkirk turned to look at her but she held his head in place.

"Don't move," she said, "I need to get your neck measurements."

So Newkirk was forced to shoot a cocked eyebrow towards Marty instead.

The old tailor just chuckled. He couldn't help his wife's romantic nature.

"After all," Nina continued, "You're meeting her parents. There aren't many other steps to take before a proposal would be in order."

Newkirk looked thoughtful. "You think so?" he asked.

Marty glanced up at Newkirk from his work. He was surprised by the young man's answer. Every other time Nina had mentioned marriage to Newkirk, he had quickly dismissed the thought. This time though, he seemed to consider it. "Have you thought about maybe proposing?" Martin asked.

Newkirk was silent for a while, which just increased the anticipation that was building in the room. At last he replied, "I've thought about it." Then, catching himself, he quickly added, "Well, I've thought about thinkin' about it. But I 'aven't actually…considered it yet. But the thought's…crossed me mind."

Marty tried to hide his grin as he bowed his head to concentrate on making the suit. "I suppose you have been seeing each other for some time now. Haven't you?" Marty observed.

"Nearly a month and a half," Newkirk agreed. "'ow long did you know Nina before you proposed?"

Martin and Nina shared a chuckle. "Two years," he answered.

Newkirk's face dropped slightly, "Oh…."

Again, Marty chuckled and he patted Newkirk's shoulder, "It is an important decision, my boy. I'd encourage you to think hard about it before you settle on anything…for Stephanie's sake, and your own."

Nina slapped her husband's shoulder. "Oh, don't go and tell him that! It's about time the lad got married. It's obvious he's crazy about the little thing!" Nina exclaimed.

But Newkirk's cold feet got the better of him. "No, he's right, Nina love. And at any rate, if I ask 'er, it won't be for a while yet anyhow."

With that, the conversation died down and each member of the small group was left to his or her thoughts. Nina and Martin continued about finding the appropriate materials and taking accurate measurements. As for Newkirk, his mind floated towards thoughts of Stephanie. Before meeting her, Newkirk had developed a reputation for being a ladies' man. He was commonly taking girls out on dates, but it was rarely the same girl for two weeks in a row. But Stephanie was different. Somehow, he just enjoyed _her_. She was unique from every other girl he had met, and Newkirk couldn't put his finger on the precise difference. He supposed it was because she was real. Most girls would put on a front. They would enter "date-mode" and would pretend to be people they weren't, in order that they might become more attractive. But Stephanie wasn't like that. She just seemed so genuine. She was sweet, and gentle, and she loved him.

She _loved_ him. That's what stood out to him the most. In her walk of life, she could have any man on earth she desired. Her social standing didn't leave room for hardly any restriction in that area. And yet, she wasn't in love with the numerous Nobles in England. She was in love with _him_. He couldn't hide himself from her. She knew from the beginning that he probably wasn't very well off. But that never seemed to repel her for an instant. She loved him for who he was, not who he could be, or who he pretended to be…just him. A soft grin came to his face. Nina was right about one thing, he _was_ crazy about her.

And so the night wore on. The tailor and his wife busily set about constructing the finest suit of clothes that had ever been created in that shop, and Newkirk just stood back and watched it happen. It actually turned out to be a rather fun evening, to Newkirk's surprise. Nina was as giddy as a little girl playing dress-up with a life-size doll, and Marty loved the opportunity to create something special for his young friend. But mostly, the three of them were just enjoying the time spent with each other. These people loved each other, and silently, they all agreed that this was as it should be…time with the family.

* * *

I hope you liked this chapter. I had a lot of fun with it! Please let me know what you think.

-Monker


	24. Introductions

Chapter Twenty Four: Introductions

When the day of the ball arrived, Newkirk walked proudly down the street, following the directions Stephanie had given him to her house. He was dressed in his new suit and looked absolutely marvelous. Martin had really outdone himself. Peter wore a white dress shirt with starched collar and cuffs. His buttons and neck tie were both black. His trousers were also black and had a single, narrow grey stripe down the outer side of each pant leg. His blazer had white, double breasted buttons, a mid-chest neckline and was also a crisp white color. With his hair slicked back into place, Newkirk looked like a true gentleman.

It was also interesting to see people's reactions to him as he walked down the road. By now, he was accustomed to people noticing him when he went out in public. But their glances were usually rude and somehow invading. But now, Newkirk didn't think anyone recognized him as the Mystery Man at all. He looked so different in his fine clothes that everyone seemed to take him as some wealthy gentleman. People still stared, but now it was with a look of admiration and esteem on their faces. Newkirk held his shoulders squarer and kept his chin higher than usual, proud of himself as he took firm, confident strides down the lane.

But, as he neared the large house, his pace faulted slightly and his confidence seemed to waver. The house was enormous. It was three stories tall, with large, white pillars forming a semi circle around the grand entrance and it seemed to have countless windows. Newkirk gulped and pulled on his jacket to straighten it. He hesitated outside the iron gate, reaching up to feel his tie nervously.

Then he glanced up and saw Stephanie in one of the second story windows. She smiled at him excitedly and gave him an enthusiastic wave. That made him feel a bit better. He smiled and subtly waved back at her. Then, with a deep breath, he opened the gate and made his way up the brick walkway, straight to the front door.

A butler answered the door and welcomed him into the home. The inside of the house was just as grand as the outside. The entry hall had floors that appeared to be made of some sort of marble. At the end of the hall, there was a great staircase which lead up to the second level. The ceiling was possibly the most breathtaking aspect of the hall, however. It was two stories from the ground level, so people standing on the second floor could peer over the banisters down into the entry below. There was fine crown molding that wrapped around the edges of the grand ceiling. The entry hall was clearly designed to leave an impression, and it certainly did.

Needless to say, Newkirk was breathless. But he quickly tried to compose himself and not appear to be an awe-struck child on his first trip to the cinema. The butler kindly began to lead the way down the entry hall. But Stephanie intercepted them at the base of the stairs.

"Thank you, Cumberly!" she said happily. "I shall take it from here!"

Cumberly bowed his head slightly, "Of course, madam."

Peter and Stephanie waited until the butler was well out of ear shot before they finally spoke to each other.

"How are you feeling?" she asked in a whisper.

Peter nodded hesitantly, "Oh, fine. I only feel like I've got a flock of birds flappin' around in me chest," he joked.

Stephanie laughed the then reached up to straighten his tie. "You'll do fine. Just don't let daddy scare you. His bark is worse than his bite."

Again, Peter nodded, continuing to glance around his surroundings and silently marvel at the large home. "I'll keep that in mind," he said, though he felt certain that the bite of a Duke could be a particularly devastating one. "Where is daddy dearest?" he asked.

"Everyone is in the drawing room," Stephanie said, gesturing towards a long hallway with her head. With a few swipes of her hands, she dusted off the shoulders of Newkirk's jacket. "You look wonderful, by the way," she complimented, smiling at him and noticing how he stood straighter when she said that.

Peter took that time to fully admire Stephanie. She was wearing a beautiful, light yellow gown. Her hair was pulled up into a tightly weaved bun. She wore white gloves over her hands, and her necklace and earrings were jeweled with amethysts. She looked absolutely stunning, and for a moment, Peter's breath was literally taken away. Finally, he nodded, "And you look marvelous."

She beamed up at him, making herself seem even more beautiful—to Peter's astonishment—and then raised her eyebrows to ask, "Are you ready?"

Peter breathed in deeply and then nodded his head, "Ready."

Then, grabbing his hand, Stephanie turned and started to walk him towards the drawing room. She released his hand before they entered the room, and Peter instantly missed the contact.

The first person he noticed was a woman sitting on a large couch. Based on the age and likeness, Peter assumed this woman was Stephanie's mother. She was a lovely woman of about fifty. Her hair was blonde and cut very short. She had striking blue eyes and a naturally beautiful face. She wore a lovely, dark blue ball gown, with long white gloves. Around her neck, she wore a stunning necklace fitted with many sparkling stones, and she had dangling earrings to match. Newkirk didn't think he had ever seen that many diamonds in one place before in his life. She looked on Peter with an appraising eye which made him very nervous and he stood very awkwardly, not knowing what she was looking for exactly. But after a short while, she finally smiled at him and Newkirk was able to relax slightly.

Sitting next to the mother was an equally beautiful young lady. She looked like she was likely older than Stephanie by possibly a few years. Her long hair was a very dark brown, and her face was very pale. But her eyes were the very same color as her mother's, and just as strikingly beautiful. In fact, both daughters seemed to share their mother's beauty. The young woman also wore a lovely, light pink ball gown. From the moment he entered the room, the second woman, who Peter assumed to be Stephanie's sister, looked at him with a small smile. She also seemed to be appraising Peter, but at least her smile was more reassuring than the mother's was.

Peter noticed the Duke last because he was not sitting on the sofa with the rest of his family. The large, imposing figure stood at the end of the room with his back towards them. He stared out the window and clasped his hands behind his back. Peter thought the man looked like a general, studying the battlefield with intense scrutiny. The man was very tall, definitely over six feet. His head was mostly bald, but the hair he had left was brown. Had Peter been able to see the man's face, he would have seen a full, but well-trimmed beard which offered the Duke's face a bold and imposing demeanor. His eyes were brown, like Stephanie's, but they lacked a certain tender quality his daughter's possessed.

Peter stood in one spot as Stephanie introduced him. "Mother, father, I would like you to meet my dear friend Mr. Peter Newkirk." She smiled at him, but the poor young man was too nervous to crack a smile in return. He merely stood there and watched as Stephanie's mother rose from her seat and approached them.

Harriet extended her hand towards Newkirk. He had a brief moment of terror when he came a breath away from shaking it with vigor, but at the last moment, he caught himself and instead grasped it gently and then bowed to kiss it. Stephanie was very proud of him that he pulled off this expression with the grace of a Crown Prince.

"Delighted, madam," Newkirk said charmingly.

Harriet smiled at him approvingly, "It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Newkirk."

But Stephanie frowned slightly. As soon as Peter had spoken, she noticed that he was trying to mask his natural accent. His voice didn't have the distinct Cockney flavor to it that she had grown to love so much. Instead, he was imitating the "proper" English accent of high society. She knew what he was doing. He was trying to fit in, but she didn't want him to change himself for her. She wanted him to be real with her family.

Deciding that she would confront Peter later, Stephanie turned her attention to her stubborn father who continued to gaze out the window. She gave her mother a pleading look and Harriet seemed to get the message.

"Oh Arnold, dear, Stephanie has brought her company," Harriet said cheerily.

The Duke finally turned to face the rest of the room. He approached the other members of the group and nodded slightly at Peter in acknowledgement of his presence.

When the Duke was near enough, Newkirk extended his hand. "It's an honor to meet you, sir," he said pleasantly.

But the Duke frowned disapprovingly and looked at Peter as if he were speaking some foreign language.

Instantly, Newkirk sensed he had done something wrong. He didn't know that it was customary that the master of the house should be the first to extend his hand. Peter only knew that he had offered his hand, and the Duke had yet to take it. Not knowing what else to do, Peter continued to hold his hand there and tried not to let his facial expressions betray his true feelings of awkwardness and stupidity.

At last, the Duke of Langbourne reached out and clasped Newkirk's hand, giving it a small shake. "Yes," he said, "I have heard much about you, Mr. Newkirk." Something in the tone of his voice made the sentiment sound unfriendly, though the actual words he spoke were cordial.

Peter continued to smile, but was inwardly relieved when the big man released his hand. Then Stephanie turned his attention to the young woman who was still standing off to the side.

"And this is my sister, Vivian," she introduced.

Peter took her hand and kissed it chastely, "It's a pleasure."

Vivian grinned widely, "Oh, indeed it is, Mr. Peter Newkirk." She said his name as if it created a pleasant flavor in her mouth. At last, her sister had found a man, and Vivian was loving every minute of it.

Then, to Peter's relief, the Duchess said, "Well, we should be heading out. We shall be expected at the party shortly."

So all five people turned and headed out the door. As they were leaving, Stephanie managed to grab hold of Peter's hand for a brief squeeze. When he looked at her, she winked and mouthed the words, "Well done."

He responded with a silent, "Thanks," and a shaky exhalation of breath. This was going to be an interesting evening.

* * *

**Canon inspiration for this chapter:** In the episode, "Diamonds in the Rough" seeing all the many diamonds, Newkirk is prompted to this line…

Newkirk: You know, colonel, I knew a bird once in London, a Duchess she was, partly a bad time…

Then Hogan cuts him off and tells him to save if for his memoirs. According to my story, seeing all those diamonds, which were intended to be used to bribe a German officer, Newkirk was reminded of the jewelry worn by Stephanie's mother in this chapter.


	25. At the Party

Chapter Twenty Five: At the Party

The party was held in the home of the Denimore family, which was a large estate on the outskirts of London. Music from a life orchestra flooded the air with sweet sounding sonatas from Beethoven and Mozart. Many people mingled and socialized throughout the large halls and the crowded ballroom.

Newkirk recognized a lot of different people, mostly politicians, noblemen, and a few celebrities. In the midst of all these famous people, Peter instantly felt out of place, like a black sheep that mars the perfectly white pattern of a large flock. It wasn't common that the Cockney's confidence should waver, but in this environment, he felt as comfortable as an ice cube in the middle of the Sahara.

Eventually, as they made their way further into the entry hall, Peter realized that every guest was stopping to whisper something to a man with a long staff. Then the man would call out a loud announcement of "Lord Calverton and Lady Schneider," and then the guest would be acknowledged by the host and hostess before continuing into the main ballroom area.

After the Duke spoke to him briefly, the man with the staff observed their little group keenly. When his eyes finally landed on Newkirk, the young commoner noticed how the caller's eyes widened slightly in realization. Then he banged his staff against the ground and announced, "The Duke and Duchess of Langborn and their daughters, Ladies Vivian and Stephanie Chambers, along with their guest, Mr. Peter Newkirk."

There were several people in the large crowd that stopped in mid-sentence to look at Peter as he followed Stephany into the party. Everyone seemed to recognize him and he overheard a few people turn to each other and ask, "What did they say his name was?" A faint buzz hovered over the room as the quiet voices discussed the identity of the recently exposed Mystery Man.

"Come, Mr. Newkirk," Stephanie said, trying to be an example to Peter by paying no heed to the voices around them. "It's time for us to meet the host."

The Denimores greeted the new guests with practiced courtesy and friendliness. "Good evening Arnold, Harriet. We are so pleased you could make it," said their host. "How wonderful that your lovely daughters could come as well! And I take it this is young Mr. Newkirk?" the man asked with a pleasant smile, extending his hand to Peter.

Newkirk replied, "Yes, sir," and took the man's hand, thinking that this Denimore bloke seemed a lot easier to get on with than the Duke. Then, remembering his manners he added, "You have a very fine home, sir."

The big man laughed jovially and slapped Newkirk on the arm, "It is indeed a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Newkirk. Though I wonder if you don't flatter me out of obligation rather than true impulse." Then, turning his attention towards Stephanie he said, "You my dear, I take it, know this young man the best. What can you tell me of his motives? Would he say what wasn't true in order to be polite and flatter me?" he asked.

Newkirk gulped. He hadn't expected this to result from his well-intentioned compliment. But Stephanie answered their host's question promptly and with grace.

"I can think of many occasions when Peter has gone to great lengths to be polite," she replied, "but I cannot think of a single time when something he's said has proven to be a falsehood."

Again, the man laughed cheerily and then shook Newkirk's hand with great vigor. "Well then, an honest man he is! That's a great relief to the mind of a father, wouldn't you agree Arnold?"

The Duke coolly answered, "I have always truly believed that the finest of young ladies deserves only the _finest_ of young men." If anyone in the small colloquy noticed the subtle jab at Newkirk behind those words, none of them let on.

Instead, their host nodded with a grin, "Well put, old friend! Extremely well put! Please friends, all of you, enjoy your time."

When the Duke and his family had passed the main greeting area, they were shown into the ballroom where their table would be located. For the first time since their arrival, Peter noticed the small cluster of news reporters that were standing on the edges of the room, the journalists observing the entering guests and scribbling notes on their small pads of paper while their photographers snapped pictures of whoever looked important. It didn't take long for the reporters to catch the scent of a headliner and start firing off all their flashing bulbs in Newkirk's direction.

As he passed the newsmen, he heard them frantically asking each other, "What was it? Newkurt?" and, "How many K's are in that?" Somehow, Peter felt a strange sense of pride by that. For the first time since he had met Stephanie, he was with her in public, and the world knew who he was. They were openly with each other and no one was hounding them for information, rather, he and Stephanie were being treated with the respect of dignitaries.

When the the family was shown to their table, everyone took their seats and small, polite conversation ensued. For the most part, the conversation didn't involve Peter. But occasionally, either Vivian or the Duchess would direct a question towards him. Peter tried his best to answer the questions as intelligently as he could, but from time to time, he wouldn't know exactly how to respond. At those times, Stephanie would come to his rescue and either deter the conversation, or answer the question on his behalf. When that would happen, Newkirk would shoot her a grateful look or a quick squeeze of the hand under the table in thanks.

"So," Vivian began after the appetizers had been served, "Stephanie tells me you are an entertainer."

Peter, who was taking a sip of his champagne—which incidentally was the best he had ever tasted—glanced at Stephanie before replying, "Yes, that is true. I have a magic act that I perform from time to time at various locations around town."

"You're a magician? Oh, that's splendid!" Vivian exclaimed. "Mother, remember that magician we saw in Paris?"

Harriet nodded her head. "He was rather impressive," she commented.

"Oh, he was spectacular!" Vivian went on. "He could take his hat, throw it into the air, and by the time it left his hand, it had turned into confetti," she marveled.

Newkirk smiled with a small nod, "Oh yes. That sounds like a classic example of distraction and substitution."

"So you're saying you know how he did it?" Vivian wondered.

"Well, I cannot know for sure unless I see the trick," he replied, "but I have a few ideas as to what it could be."

Stephanie had to keep herself from cringing. She hated hearing Peter talk in that phony accent. It was like he was putting on an act. He sounded like he was doing one of his impressions that usually made her laugh so much. But he wasn't trying to be funny now, he was trying to seem like someone he wasn't and it grated on Stephanie. She wished that Peter would not be so self-conscious.

"Fascinating," Vivian marveled, "Could you do a trick for us now?"

"Vivian, dear," the Duke chided, "let's try to remember we are at a proper dinner party, not some common pub. If it's entertainment you want child, listen to the orchestra. I believe they are playing Beethoven's concerto in D major." He inclined his head towards the music with a look of blissful entrancement on his face.

At that, both Vivian and Peter were successfully silenced from further discussion of magic. The meal then continued in a normal fashion. When it came time to order, Peter almost panicked when he realized he couldn't pronounce half of the dishes on the menu, but luckily enough, the Duke ordered on behalf of everyone. The food itself was strange and Newkirk didn't care much for it. Based on the names of the dishes, Peter guessed that most of the items on the menu were French. He had heard that French cuisine was supposed to be the finest in the world, but in his humble opinion, it all tasted like a mouth-full of balloons. But Newkirk appeared to be the only one who thought so. All of the other members at the table ate their food happily and with soft, subtle moans of approval. Peter tried to mimic their apparent enjoyment of the food, but it took every ounce of acting ability in the conman.

When they had finished eating, conversation once again preoccupied the table. As the Duke and Duchess carried on a conversation related to politics, something in which Newkirk was hardly interested, he allowed himself to become distracted by the activity on the dance floor. After a while of observing the numerous couples, Peter made eye contact with Stephanie and then motioned vaguely towards the dance floor, silently asking if it would be proper.

When she understood his meaning, Stephanie smiled encouragingly and gave a subtle nod.

Without needing further incentive, Peter straightened his shoulders slightly and then turned to Stephanie once more. "Lady Stephanie, would you care to dance?" he asked charmingly.

"I would love to, Mr. Newkirk," she replied with grace, extending her hand to him when he stood and moved to help her from her chair.

Before leading her away from the table, Newkirk turned to Stephanie's parents and said, "If you will please permit me, I'd like to steal your daughter away for a moment."

Harriet smiled and nodded approvingly, "Of course, please do."

With one more smile, Peter turned and guided his girl onto the dance floor. He smoothly placed his right hand in hers, and his left arm around her, resting his hand on her right shoulder blade. Then he looked at her with a small smile and quietly counted off, "2...3…4…" before leading her into the first simple steps of a classic waltz. He maneuvered her around the dance floor with almost expert proficiency and achieved the dipping and rising of the toe-to-heel movements with practiced ease.

Stephanie was stunned, but pleasantly so, by Peter's surprising dancing abilities. "You're a very good dancer; one of the finest I've danced with, as a matter of fact."

"You really think so?" he asked, sending her a fleeting glance, "It must be the shoes. I got 'em new, you know."

"No, I'm serious. Where did you learn to dance?" she persisted.

He looked at her and grinned softly, "Me mum is a dancer. She used to give the neighborhood kids lessons on dancin'. Me and me sister were always 'er models for 'er classes. Mavis and me got real good and dancin' together."

Stephanie smiled cutely at him, "That's sweet."

He hiked his shoulders with a small look of agreement, "Yeah, I guess it is," then his face turned grave as he added, "And if you repeat that to a soul, I'll deny every word of it."

Stephanie threw her head back in laughter as Peter just smiled at her, and a wave of flashing lights shot from across the room as the numerous photographers tried to capture the moment on film.

The lovely couple continued to dance across the floor, commanding the attention of many of the night's guests. Some people observed the young dancers with a look of satisfaction and simple pleasure, while others looked upon them with disapproval and judgment. But to the lovers themselves, the rest of the world didn't matter. They were together, they weren't hiding, and they were absolutely loving every minute of it.

Suddenly, Stephanie realized this might be her only opportunity to confront Peter with what was troubling her all evening. "Why have you changed your accent for my family?" she asked.

Newkirk looked at her quizzically, blind-sided by her question. "What?" he asked.

"Don't pretend, Peter, that you haven't a clue what I meant by that. You know very well that you've been putting on a fake accent and I want to know why."

He didn't answer at first. Instead, he turned them into a few tight spins in an effort to buy some time to think of a good response. Finally, he admitted, "I don't know…I guess I just wanted to seem…you know…"

She looked at him expectantly. No, she didn't know.

"…respectable, I guess," he finished, looking down to watch their foot pattern in shame.

"Peter, I've always respected you, and I would no matter how you looked or sounded. I don't care what anyone else thinks. I just want you to be yourself."

He looked back up at her with determination set in his eyes. "Maybe you don't care about what they think, but I do," he said, "Steph, this might be my only chance to prove to these people that I'm the man for you. If I can't fit into their idea of what you deserve, then I might lose you after tonight…and I'm not about to let that 'appen. So if I think it will do anything to 'elp me fit into this world of yours, then I'm goin' to do it."

She still didn't like the idea of him changing himself for the public's sake, but he seemed to be so firmly set in that conviction that she abandoned any notion of being able to sway him to reconsider.

So the pair continued their dance in relative bliss.

* * *

**Canon Inspiration for this chapter:** In the episode, "Everyone has a Brother-in-Law"…

Newkirk: "If there was more dancin' in the world, there would be less war." That's what me ol' mum used to say. She was a beautiful dancer, right up to the end.


	26. As Yesterday slips into Today

Chapter Twenty Six: As Yesterday slips into Today

When the song ended, all of the dancers turned toward the orchestra to applaud and then everyone headed back to their seats. When they reached their table, Stephanie and Peter were greeted with happy words.

"That was lovely," Vivian noted.

And Harriet seemed to agree, "Indeed. I do believe at one point you had every eye in the room admiring you."

Peter graciously blushed as he helped Stephanie into her chair. "I didn't notice," he answered honestly. With Stephanie now sitting, he moved to reclaim his own seat.

The night wore on pleasantly enough. Stephanie and Peter took to the dance floor several other times that night and he even shared a few dances with Vivian as well. Other young men came and asked Stephanie to dance, which she always accepted—to Peter's surprise. He eventually learned that it was not uncommon for someone like Stephanie to share dances with many different men and that no actual sentiment was intended by it. But nevertheless, Peter tried to be discreet as he monitored all of her dancing partners with a keen and subtly protective eye.

Aside from Vivian and Stephanie, the only other lady with whom Peter shared a dance was the guest of honor, the cheery Lady Bethany Denimore, with her shocking red hair and dumpy ankles; and this was only because it was evidently customary for the young lady who was coming out to dance with every eligible young man at the event. So when Peter took his turn with Lady Denimore, he tried to be as polite and friendly as he could. But he felt very uncomfortable with the dance. He preferred to stay close to his small group of people, Stephanie's family, the Chambers. At this party, they were the only ones he actually knew. Even though he had just met them, he still held a closer sense of familiarity to them than he did any other soul in the room. And as he danced with Bethany, he was distanced from the Chambers' table. And he felt alone, spinning and twirling Bethany around the dance floor, which had been evacuated to showcase the dancing of the guest of honor. And he knew that every eye in the room was watching him, and his comfort zone had torn itself from him to remain at the table, like Peter Pan's shadow.

But he tried to hide his discomfort as he skillfully led the young lady across the floor. He slipped into the most charming version of himself and proceeded to amuse her and make her laugh until the song had ended. Everyone clapped as Newkirk bowed and kissed Bethany's hand.

Returning to the table felt like slipping into a warm bath, and his tense muscles were able to relax again.

"That was lovely, Peter," Stephanie said, momentarily forgetting to call him by his formal title, "I do love the way you dance. It looks even better from here."

"Thanks, love," he replied before a fierce shade of red came to his cheeks and he realized the mistake he had made.

The Duke became visibly upset over the use of the common pet name. His jaw and fists clenched tightly and he struggled to restrain his outbreak. A defusing caress from his wife had the desired affect and helped him to calm down.

Vivian had found the slip-of-the-tongue more amusing than enraging, and she bowed her head discreetly to giggle to herself.

With the blush still intense in his cheeks, Peter glanced apologetically at Stephanie and she smiled back at him with sympathy. She found both his slip-up and his ensuing reaction thoroughly adorable. She let him know, through silent expressions of her face, that it was alright and that no harm had been done.

At that moment, a server approached their table and bent to whisper something in the Duke's ear. With a puzzled expression, Arnold Chambers stood from the table. "Excuse me please, I must go and talk to someone."

"Who darling?" asked the Duchess.

"I don't know," he replied. "There is a man asking to speak with me in the entry hall." Without further explanation, for he had none, the Duke followed the server out of the ballroom and back towards the entry.

Having finished their meal a while ago, Peter leaned back into his comfortable chair and looked pleasantly at Stephanie. It was awkward at first, but as the night wore on, Peter had grown more and more accustomed to the environment. He was surprised to find that he thought he could actually get used to this lifestyle. He enjoyed being free with Stephanie like this. At the moment, sitting there with her family, watching her with a loving eye, he felt content…as though he would be happy to spend the rest of his life there.

A tap on his shoulder caused Peter to come out of his thoughts and back to real life. He looked up to see a tall man who he didn't recognize. Next to the man was the Duke, who loomed over Peter with a fierce fire in his eye. Confused, Peter readjusted himself in his seat so that he could see the pair of men without straining his neck.

"Are you Peter Newkirk?" the strange man asked.

Again, Peter glanced at the Duke, only to see the large man frown sternly at him. Peter turned back to the man, "Yes," he said cautiously.

The man reached into his overcoat and pulled out something that looked like a wallet. "You're under arrest," he said, flashing a badge in Newkirk's face.

Newkirk's eyes widened in terror as he sat frozen in his seat. Desperately, he glanced towards the Duke once more, this time seeing the change in the man's features. The Duke was glad. He was cruelly enjoying the incriminating expression on Newkirk's face. Slowly, Peter sat back in his chair, his eyebrows wrinkled in stunned remorse.

Vivian was enraged, "What is the meaning of this, Inspector?" she demanded. "What are the charges against him?"

But Newkirk wasn't listening. He immediately turned to Stephanie, a look of desperation on his face. She was staring, stunned, at the Inspector. When Peter reached over and grasped both of her hands in his, she made eye contact with him. No words were spoken audibly between them, but there were many worried questions and regretful answers that were communicated through their intense gazes.

There was so much to say, so much to tell her, to apologize for, but Peter could say nothing. His stomach shriveled into a painful wad and his eyes filled with tears. He wished he had never done it. He wished he had never even met Alfie the Artist. He wished he could just reverse time and return to the day Alfie had first proposed the heist and Peter had placed the tape measurer around his neck and gone to stand in front of the window as he had been instructed, signaling to The Artist that he and Harry would accept the challenge. He wished he could just return the money and be forgiven. But most of all, he wished that he had just been the honest man that Stephanie always believed him to be.

"Oh Steph," he said quietly, clenching her hands tightly and staring into her eyes with overwhelming pain.

Her eyes welled up with tears and she looked hopelessly confused. She didn't understand what was happening, but she knew that Peter was guilty of some great thing, and that he was about to pay dearly for it.

"We have reason to believe that this man is guilty of trespassing, breaking and entering, and robbery of the personal property of Air Marshall James L. Custard," the Inspector informed.

"Oh, that's absurd!" Vivian defended, "Mr. Newkirk would never rob someone! Would you, Mr. Newkirk?"

Peter just stayed silent and bowed his head in shame.

Vivian, by now terribly fond of Newkirk, refused to be beaten. Turning to the Inspector once more she demanded, "What proof do you have?"

"A receipt was found at the scene of the crime."

For the first time since he had grasped Stephanie's hands, Newkirk turned his head and began to listen to what was being said.

The Inspector continued, "The receipt led us to a small pawn shop. We asked the owner of the shop for a description of the person who sold the items listed on the receipt. He did one better."

Suddenly, a small photograph was flung down onto Peter's lap. He blinked the tears out of his eyes so that he could make out the image on the photograph.

"You should have accepted the photo, kid. Your face is plastered over every newspaper in London," said the Inspector.

Then Newkirk recognized the photo. It was the one the pawnbroker had snapped of him the moment Newkirk had entered the shop. And he remembered how the man had offered to give him the photo once it had been developed, and Peter had irritatedly declined. What a stupid thing to do! Oh, if only he had known then what he knew now! But it was too late. The harm had been done and Peter couldn't reverse it.

The Inspector's hand landed firmly on his shoulder, clutching it with the strength of an eagle's talons. "Come on son," he said.

"No wait, please," Peter begged, "Just a moment. A moment, please. I must talk to Stephanie alone."

"A felon?" The Duke of Langbourne bellowed, "Alone with my daughter? I'd never allow it!"

Peter's face was distraught, but he wouldn't give the Duke the satisfaction of seeing Peter grovel. So he turned once more to Stephanie and clutched her hands close to his heart.

"Peter?" she asked feebly.

"I'm so sorry, love," he choked out, bringing her hands to his lips and kissing them earnestly. A tear slipped from his nose and was lost in the slits between her fingers. "God, I am _so_ sorry!"

"Come on then," said the Inspector, lifting on Newkirk's jacket and causing him to stand.

Peter struggled to keep her hands in his as he was pulled unfeelingly away for the woman he loved. When at last he was pulled too far, and her small, pale hands slowly slipped out of his large, tan ones, it felt as though his oxygen supply had been removed. Tears careened down his face and Peter scarcely noticed as his arms were drawn behind his back and handcuffs were placed around his wrists. He never broke eye contact with Stephanie, and they silently cried together.

Then the Inspector escorted Newkirk out of the ballroom. For the fourth time that night, every eye in the room was trained on him, and countless camera flashes illuminated his forlorn features, but Newkirk didn't care. Tonight…he had lost his love.

* * *

Alright, I'm _really_ interested to hear what you thought of this one! So if you have the time, please leave a quick review telling me what you think. This was was hard, but at the same time interesting to write. I really hope you appreciated it (if not enjoyed it). And thank you, once again, for reading!

**Author's Note:** The title for this chapter loosely derives from the episode "The Forms of Things Unknown" from the origional Outer Limits series.

-Monker


	27. A Visitor

**Author's Note:** Well, I'm afraid you shall have to savor this chapter. I am leaving to go out of town tomorrow and will be unable to update any story for a week. I feel really bad about leaving you hanging like this, especially so near the home stretch of this story. But I'm afraid it cannot be helped. So, enjoy this chapter, and please be patient while I am away. :o)

* * *

Chapter Twenty Seven: A Visitor

The days and nights ticked by slowly for Newkirk. His prison cell was small and had no windows. It had only a toilet and a small cot with a thin pillow and an even thinner blanket. It had been two days since his arrest and he was currently awaiting his trial. Upon his arrival, the prisoner in the cell next to his tried to make conversation with Newkirk. But Peter wasn't interested in sharing words. He only wanted to be left alone…alone to his grief and his thoughts.

So Newkirk spent most of his time lying on the cot, staring at the stained ceiling above him, inwardly lamenting his foolish self. Why had he done it? It was a stupid idea and Newkirk knew that. From the very beginning, Newkirk had worried that they wouldn't be able to pull it off. He had worried that something like this would happen. Why hadn't he just listened to his conscience in the first place? There, in that cell, Newkirk swore that he would never go against his gut again.

At that moment, his conversation with Nina and Marty came flooding back into his memory with vengeance. They had tried to warn him. He hadn't listened to them then. But now he could see how they were right. He really _did_ love money too much. No other explanation made sense. He loved money enough to let it make him do such a stupid thing as to rob a house! And it came back to bite him in the worse kind of way.

Oh, why hadn't he just listened to them? Why did he have to be so proud? He should have known better. Nina and Marty were good people. They were wise and always gave him the best advice. And he usually _tried_ to do the right thing. So why hadn't he just listened to them this time? Why hadn't he just realized they were right and refused the heist? His life would be so much better right now!

Newkirk groaned in frustration, turning over on his side. Regret overtook him and his stomach ached when he thought about Marty and Nina now. He knew he had disappointed them, and that knowledge grated at his core. He could envision the elderly couple in his mind, shaking their heads at him solemnly and asking, "Why didn't you just listen to us? Why didn't you just say no?"

The past was a cruel thing, always so mocking, always immune to alteration. Whatever happened before may or may not ever happen again, but it will always exist in the past. And somehow, what was happening in the present day could seem just fine, and yet, when it slipped into the past, there was always at least one aspect that merited that lingering question of, "why?" Only in Newkirk's case, there were many missteps to regret.

Newkirk sighed, staring at the bars of his prison. He had taken a risk, one that went against his better judgment, and the results had left him devastated. He had nothing to show for his terrible mistake except an empty wallet and a broken heart.

Truly, he felt that the person he had injured the most was Stephanie. He would never be able to forget the look on her face when he was arrested. The hurt, the brokenness in her eyes was just too much for his mind to ever erase. He had let her down most of all. She thought so much of him. She thought he was her Prince Charming. But he was nothing more than a lowly crook. She deserved someone better, someone who wouldn't dash her dreams that way. She deserved the man all of her friends and family wanted for her, someone with money and social standing, who could take care of her and give her the life that was really fit for her, a life full of all the luxuries and joys she had known since she was a little girl. Newkirk couldn't give her any of those things. He had nothing to offer her except himself. And as he looked solemnly around his pitiful circumstances, Newkirk knew he hardly made a tempting prize.

But, Newkirk still couldn't shake his intense desire to see her again. Perhaps he was just being selfish, but he still didn't want to lose her. He loved her more than he thought he could ever love anyone. His heart hurt to think of the pain he caused her, but it _ached_ to be with her again. He just couldn't let her go. He just couldn't bear to let their happiness end. Somehow, he had to find a way to make all of it right. He had to find a way to get her back.

At that moment, Peter heard footsteps coming down the hall towards his cell. He moved to a sitting position right as the guard reached his cell.

"You have a visitor," the guard said, unlocking the cell door.

Peter couldn't see who the visitor was, but he had a pretty good idea. Suddenly, his heart reclaimed a little of its previous joy at the thought of seeing her again. There was so much he needed to tell her.

The cell door opened and Peter rose to his feet. Then, "Sir?" Newkirk asked, stunned.

The Duke stood in the threshold of the cell for a moment. His eyes combed the room with a disgusted expression on his face. Then he turned that displeasing expression onto Newkirk, as if the young prisoner had chosen the decorations for his overgrown cage. The Duke slowly strode into the cell.

He wore a large heavy coat around his shoulders like a cape, with his arms tucked inside instead of reaching through the sleeves. His thick boots were loud as they stomped across the cell floor. In that small room, the man seemed even larger to Newkirk than he remembered.

But Peter wasn't intimidated this time. The big man that he feared so much before could do nothing more to hurt Newkirk. The young criminal was as low as he could be. Even with all the Duke's power and authority, he could not put Newkirk through any more pain.

Turning away from his guest, Newkirk headed back to his cot. "What are you doin' 'ere?" he asked tiredly, no longer trying to hide his natural accent. What would be the point?

If the Duke was stunned by the sudden change to Cockney, he didn't show it. "That's no way to treat a guest," he chastised arrogantly.

"Oh leave off, Gov'ner! We both know you ain't 'ere to say you're sorry. So what do you want?"

The Duke smiled slightly, confident that this was the _real_ Peter Newkirk to whom he was now talking. "I have come to speak with you, man to man."

Newkirk sighed, flopping himself back down upon his cot. "About what?" he asked.

"About your relationship with my daughter."

"Uhhuh," Newkirk said, leaning back against the wall, "And what exactly do you want to know?"

The Duke of Langbourne straightened himself and adjusted his cape. He refused to look at Newkirk as he spoke, so instead, he stared straight ahead. But his eyes didn't seem to come in contact with the white brick wall opposite him. He seemed to somehow stare beyond it, like he was imagining himself addressing a large crowd. His voice was quiet, but solid, as he began, "I'm sure you can appreciate that, as her father, I have certain concerns for Stephanie's wellbeing." He hazarded a sideways glance at Newkirk, who simply cocked a questioning eyebrow at him. The Duke continued, "And I simply wanted to verify that, during your relationship, certain…lines…were never crossed." Here, he looked at Newkirk with mildly concealed accusation.

Newkirk stared him squarely in the eye. He knew what the Duke was asking, but he wouldn't give him the satisfaction of a quick answer. His disdain for this man was growing by the second. "I think you should ask your daughter that," Newkirk replied at last.

"Dash it all, boy! Just answer the question!" the Duke bellowed.

Newkirk crossed his arms over his chest smoothly. Clearly this man—who was so persuasive and powerful in politics—lacked the ability to even talk to his own daughter. Somehow, Newkirk felt validated to find that this giant of a man was not almighty. With a small smirk, Newkirk replied, "No…. We didn't. Steph's not that kind of a girl, and believe it or not, I'm not the type of bloke to push somethin' like that."

The Duke seemed profoundly relieved to hear this news. Layers of tension and intense discomfort seemed to peel off of him like a snake's skin. But Newkirk noticed how he still seemed to remain his harsh and hateable self.

Narrowing his eyes, Newkirk asked blatantly, "How well do you know Stephanie?"

The Duke snapped his gaze towards Peter. "I know her fine," he answered defensively.

Newkirk shook his head slowly, "No you don't." These words were not brutal or accusing. If anything, the tone of Newkirk's words was one of sadness as he spoke. "You don't know 'er at all. If you did, you wouldn't 'ave asked me that." Newkirk's gaze didn't waver. He observed the big man become more and more uncomfortable before him and suddenly, Newkirk adopted a new appreciation for Stephanie's description of the Duke all those weeks ago. She had said that the Duke didn't express his love to her. Now Newkirk could see why that was the case. This big man, this powerful and responsible man had a sort of cowardice pride…the type of pride that keeps a man from showing all of the warm and vulnerable qualities akin to the essentially emotional human race. Arnold Chambers, Duke of Langbourne wasn't even brave enough to treat his daughters like family, to love them like his own flesh and blood.

In that moment, Peter's heart was broken for Stephanie. And a part of him even felt bad for the Duke. Peter knew how much there was to love in Stephanie. The Duke was sorely missing out. If only the big man would take the time to get to know his own daughter, he would make the acquaintance of a lifetime.

The Duke was visibly agitated by Newkirk's quiet accusation. He became extremely defensive and tried to think of an appropriate response. But he was surprisingly rendered speechless by the shrewd young criminal.

"She really loves you, you know," Newkirk explained. "All she wants is to feel a bit of that in return."

The Duke barely knew how to respond to that. "That's preposterous!" he cried at last, "Of course I love my daughter!"

Newkirk gave a small laugh, "Well, accordin' to Steph, you've got a funny way of showin' it."

Again, the Duke was without words, but his widened eyes were aflame with indignant rage. Turning away, he seemed to finally find his voice. "How dare you," he said quietly. Then, his anger growing, he repeated, "How dare you!" He quickly spun around to face Newkirk again, "What makes you think you have the right to say such a thing?"

"I 'ave the right because I'm the man who's in love with your daughter," Newkirk said firmly, "and I want to make sure she's treated-"

"_You_ 'love my daughter'!" the Duke repeated with harsh unbelief.

Newkirk looked proud and confidant as he straightened his shoulders and replied, "Yes."

The Duke let out a mocking laugh. "I don't believe it," he said. "You've done nothing but ruin her life since the day you met her!"

Newkirk was caught off guard by this comment, and he didn't have time to respond before the Duke was talking again.

"For the last month, vicious lies about my daughter have been printed in every newspaper and magazine in the country thanks to you! Before she met you, Stephanie was valued as a respectable and amiable young lady of society. She had such a promising future ahead of her. And now? Now her entire reputation gained by a lifetime of respectable living is ruined! And all because of you!" At this point, the Duke produced a newspaper from underneath his overcoat and threw it at Newkirk's feet. "Now tell me," the Duke bellowed at him, "Is this your expression of 'love'?"

Newkirk's eyes landed on the page at his feet. The newspaper had two pictures on its front page. The first was a picture of Peter and Stephanie dancing at the coming out party, her head thrown back in laughter. The picture right below that showed an image of Newkirk as the Inspector escorted him out of the building. Newkirk's head was bowed in shame and his wrists were bound in handcuffs. The most heartbreaking part of the photograph was Stephanie's face in the background, her expression one of fear and sorrow. The enormous headline read, "LANGBOURNE'S MYSTERY MAN REVEALED…AS GAOL BIRD!"

Newkirk's heart clenched. After all of the publicity about their relationship, he knew that this headline would turn Stephanie into a laughing stock. His hand came up to clutch his forehead as he read the first few paragraphs of the article.

_On the 8__th__ of this month, the daughter of the Duke of Langbourne, Lady Stephanie Chambers was seen attending the coming-out party of Lady Bethany Denimore. To the surprise of everyone in attendance, Lady Stephanie was accompanied by the mysterious man who has been seen at her side for nearly a month. The Mystery Man was revealed to be a certain Mr. Peter Newkirk. He is apparently a resident of London, but aside from that information, very little is known of this man. Though his name is finally revealed, he continues to be a mystery. _

_The couple spent most of the evening at each other's side or in each other's arms, drifting across the dance floor (a feat, of which, Mr. Newkirk seemed impressively capable, this reporter notes). However, Mr. Newkirk rarely initiated interaction with any of the party's other guests. At first glance, this seems surprising; but considering events that transpired later in the evening, Mr. Newkirk's motives for isolation have become undoubtedly clear. _

_About halfway through the evening, Scotland Yard made a surprising appearance with the express purpose of revealing Mr. Newkirk's __true__ identity. It appears that, in addition to being a socially awkward recluse, Peter Newkirk is a wanted criminal. Inspector Benjamin Price arrested Peter Newkirk on the charges of burglary and escorted the criminal to a county gaol where he currently awaits trial._

_Sources reveal that Peter Newkirk is suspected of robbing several thousand pounds from Air Marshall Trenton's estate. The expertise required in committing this crime suggests that Mr. Newkirk has substantial criminal experience. Sources reveal that he engaged in romantic relations with one of Air Marshall Trenton's housekeepers in order to gain inside knowledge of the house and security precautions. It has been suggested (and this reporter frankly will not deny the likelihood) that Mr. Newkirk initiated the romance with young Lady Chambers with similar ambitions._

More enraging lies followed. The article contained quotes from other party guests who admitted that they had, _"spotted something scandalous about him the moment I laid eyes on him."_ Other areas of the article explored theories about Newkirk's intentions. Some people acknowledged that Peter and Stephanie had genuine feelings for each other, but these same individuals suspected that Stephanie was well aware of Newkirk's shameful past. _"It is probable that Lady Chambers, who has been behaving rebelliously under the influence of Mr. Newkirk over the past few weeks, might have been in on the plot to steal a certain sum of money from her father and afterward run away with Peter Newkirk to pursue their romance."_ The more he read, the tighter the knot grew in his stomach. With each false accusation or heartless jab, Newkirk wanted to scream, "But that's not true!" And what made the whole situation even worse was the fact that the Duke had been right…it _was_ all Newkirk's fault.

Stephanie would have never been subject to all of that humiliation if it hadn't been for Newkirk. Before they met, Stephanie was free from all of this hateful gossip and assuming lies. In reality, she was a kind, gentle, and polite young lady, but the press made her out to be some deceitful and rebellious tramp…and it was all because of Newkirk.

He shook his head sorrowfully. "None of this was supposed to happen," he said weakly.

The Duke scoffed, "Well it has…whether you like it or not."

"But none of this is true!"

"I don't know," observed the Duke mildly, "the segment about you robbing a house and being thrown in prison certainly seems true enough."

Newkirk glared up at the overbearing figure…but he knew he couldn't deny the accusation. He looked back at the picture, his eyes focusing immediately on Stephanie's face. Peter shook his head slowly, saying to himself, "I've got to make this right." Then he looked up at the Duke, "I've got to see her."

The Duke laughed, as if Newkirk had just spoken nonsense, "You shall do no such thing!"

Newkirk shot to his feet. "But all of this is my fault!"

"Indeed it is! And we shall see to it that you never have the opportunity to add to your wreckage!"

"But," Newkirk protested, "All of this is happenin' because of me. You've got to give me a chance to make it right!"

Then the Duke startled Newkirk when he hastily took a step towards him. The two men were almost nose to nose. "You want to help?" the Duke asked, his deep voice rasped from years of smoking fine cigars.

Newkirk nodded his head desperately, "Yes, of course I do."

The Duke squinted his eyes for emphasis as he commanded, "Then stay away from her."

Newkirk's eyes widened in fear at the Duke's suggestion.

"The best thing you can do for my daughter now is just—leave—her—alone. Let her get back to her life. Let her try to…regain some of the reputation she has lost through this whole affair."

Newkirk's head bowed as he tried to maintain his composure. His breathing became shallow and his eyes darted back and forth against the cell floor in a panicked pattern.

The Duke continued, his voice softening slightly, "Surely, Peter, you can see how this has all but ruined my daughter. If you _truly _love her the way you say you do…" here, the Duke grasped each of Newkirk's shoulders with his big hands.

Newkirk looked up at the other man, the eyes of the young criminal expressing every possible regret.

The large man tightened his grasp a little. "…then leave her be. Let her go back to her life as you go back to yours…and cease from causing her any more pain. _That_…is how you can help."

Newkirk's head dropped again and the Duke simply patted his shoulders lightly. Then, the Duke of Langebourne gathered the newspaper in his hands and turned to leave the cell. As he made his way down the prison hall, the Duke could hear the soft, but jagged intakes of breath, and the fervent sniffling that remained behind in the small jail cell.

* * *

**Canon Inspiration for this chapter:** Newkirk on the show always strikes me as a stubborn type, one who doesn't like to take unwarranted risks. And I think this bit of his personality always seems to pop up whenever Hogan suggests some wild scheme. It seems Newkirk is always the skeptic of whether or not the plan will work and/or be completely safe. I tried to allude to that character trait in this chapter when Newkirk swears to himself that he would never go against his gut instincts again.

**Author's Note:** As I mentioned, I feel bad leaving it there (Newkirk is going to be crying in that cell for a long time, regrettably). But I am afraid, in this matter, I have no choice. However, I have every intention of updating this story as soon as I am able. Please hold tight, and try not to get too bored of waiting for me. I'll try to hurry! In the meantime, please let me know what you think of this chapter! It was particularly difficult/fun to write!

-Monker


	28. Coming Home

Well, I'm back. And for those of you who would be polite enough as to ask, my trip was lovely, thank you. But now that I'm back, I am going to get right along with this chapter. I hope you enjoy it, and please feel free to review as always.

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Chapter Twenty Eight: Coming Home

Nearly a week later, Newkirk exited the prison as a semi-free man. The incredibly gracious judge had given him pardon due to the fact that it was Newkirk's first offence, and the information he was able to give them helped to recover two-thirds of the stolen money. It was also determined that Newkirk was not the mastermind behind the whole affair and honestly knew nothing about the whereabouts of the true Artist. But the pardon was given with two conditions; firstly, at the insisting of the Air Marshal from whom he stole, Newkirk was required to join the Royal Air Force in service of the King for a predetermined length of time; and secondly, if Newkirk was ever known to continue in illegal activities, he would be arrested at once and shown no mercy in the British courts.

So Newkirk walked down the streets of London, still clad in his formal suit, which was by now quite dirty and frazzled. It had been over a week since his arrest, but Newkirk was struck by the change in attitude he saw in the public. As he walked through the city, people recognized him and were not subtle in their disapproving stares. He could hear conversations begin as he passed people.

"It serves him right."

"Oh, does it now? Well, what's he doin' out of prison? He can only do more harm free! Blokes like him are better off locked up."

Newkirk tried to ignore them. He focused on the toes of his dusty shoes as he marched along the sidewalk. Newkirk didn't know which he hated more, being openly confronted by these people, or knowing they were watching his every move and talking about him behind his back. Before, it was as if he couldn't leave the tailor shop without someone hounding him for his name. But now his name had been revealed. He had been identified as Peter Newkirk by the reporters who were present at the party.

Newkirk scoffed bitterly. The one time he publicly claimed his own name was now the one time on earth he wished he could just disappear.

After a while, he made it to the Stitch in Time tailor shop. Newkirk opted to enter through the back entrance just in case they were dealing with clients. He didn't want people to know that he lived at this shop. Considering his current reputation, Newkirk knew it would only harm Marty's business if customers knew the old man housed a criminal in his basement.

Peering through the storage room entrance, Newkirk was able to observe as Nina finished with a customer at the front desk while Marty was hard at work, bent over a smoking jacket at one of the workbenches. When he was convinced the client was not going to turn around, Peter finally entered the shop.

The old tailor must have heard the door close behind Newkirk because he turned in his seat to observe who had entered. When he saw his young friend, Marty drew in a long breath as he stood from the bench. With two blinks, the tailor's kind, blue eyes started to shimmer. Marty stretched out his arms towards Newkirk as he approached him, gasping weakly, "My dear boy," before wrapping the young man in a tight embrace.

Newkirk's tired and emotionally-spent body fell into the warm hug with relief. It would be impossible to describe how secure he felt in that moment. That environment was safe, it was familiar…it was home. "I'm so sorry," Newkirk apologized in a sad whisper.

Marty just hugged him tighter. "I know," he replied, ignoring the welling-up of his own tears.

"You were right, Marty. You and Nina were both right about me." Newkirk felt the smaller man sigh.

"I know," he repeated softly. "I just wish you didn't have to learn it this way." After a few moments longer, the two men broke apart. Marty reached up to clasp the face of the young man he considered a son. "But you're home now," he said, "and you're safe."

Newkirk nodded his head. Slowly, that nod turned into a sad shake of the head. "But I've lost Stephanie," he lamented, "I've lost 'er for good this time, Marty."

"Peter!" Nina called from the other side of the room. She had managed to contain her outbreak until the customer had left the store. But as soon as the door had closed, she spun around and hurried towards Newkirk.

She too reached out her arms towards Newkirk as she approached him. "Oh, dear Peter!" she cried, falling at last into a hug of her own after her husband had stepped aside. "Oh we were so worried about you! We saw the story in the paper, but when we went to the prison, they said we couldn't see you!" She leaned away from the hug long enough to nod towards Marty. "Oh, you should have seen Martin argue with the guard! For twenty minutes he stood there, arguing for us to get a chance to see you! But they wouldn't have it. They sent us home. We tried again the next day, and the next day, and the day after that…but it was always the same story. You could take no visitors until you'd had your trial, which they certainly took they precious time about!" She snuggled back into the hug, reveling in the ability to simply put her arms around him again. Everything had been so empty without him there, and her heart just ached to think of him alone in some cold cell, being fed who knows what kind of slop. Needless to say, she was thanking God every moment for the lad's safe return. "But oh dear boy, I'm so glad you're home!"

Peter held the short woman against him. "Yeah," he said, "me too."

At that moment, a noise came from the back room and Harry was heard calling, "Hey Marty, I'm back with the crate of fabric." The other crook stuck his head in through the door. "Where do you want me to-" he stopped mid-sentence when his eyes landed on his newly released partner-in-crime.

Newkirk and Harry regarded each other for a long time, but didn't speak, and didn't embrace. They merely stood there, staring at each other, communicating several sentiments without uttering a single word.

Martin and Nina exchanged puzzled glances. They would have expected the friends to rejoice at the reunion. But the stern and almost bitter greeting that really took place was hardly the anticipated response. "You can just place it in the back, son, by the wall," Marty answered at last. "I'll sort it out later."

"Right," Harry answered, continuing to look at Newkirk before moving towards the backroom once more.

"I'll 'elp you," Newkirk offered, stepping towards the door and leaving the confused couple in the workshop.

Perhaps Nina and Marty hadn't expected such a reaction from Harry, but Peter knew his friend would respond this way. It was quite obvious that they needed to talk about it. But no words were exchanged until he and Harry were alone in the storage room.

"Well?" Harry asked in a low tone.

"'Well' what?" Newkirk responded, matching his friend in volume.

"You know ruddy well what!" Harry whispered harshly, "What'd you do with me money?"

"It wasn't _your_ money, Harry! That's what this whole bloody thing 'as been about. It was never _our_ money!"

"Oh come off it, Newkirk! What'd you do with it?"

Newkirk sighed, this wasn't going to go over well, "I told the bobbies right were to find it."

"You did _what_?" Harry exclaimed in a barely contained whisper.

"Hey, I wasn't too keen on it either, mate; but I 'ad to do it."

"You…you," Harry tried to formulate a chain of words, but somehow, his vocabulary ran dry. He couldn't believe his friend would sell out everything they had worked so hard for. "How could you do that? You 'ad no right, Newkirk!"

"Aw don't you start preachin' at me about rights. Don't you get it, Harry? We broke the law! We're not the ones with the rights 'ere."

"But did you 'ave to give it all to the bobbies? Blimey Newkirk, they don't need it!"

"Look, it was either tell 'em right where to find the money, or right where to find you! So don't go off about your missin' pounds, cause I'm really not in the mood. Just be grateful _you_ ain't in prison for it all!"

Harry's eyes widened. "You'd turn me in?" he asked, sounding like a betrayed child.

Newkirk eyed his friend seriously. "Careful mate," he warned. "Don't you be testin' our friendship by askin' such a stupid question. Peter Newkirk's nothin' if not loyal to 'is mates."

Harry sighed in subdued admission. Then shaking his head, he pleaded, "But wasn't there _any_ other way? Did you 'ave to give up _all_ that pretty money?"

"Yes, I 'ad to, so stop plaguin' me about it. They wouldn't 'ave let me go otherwise; and I wasn't about to spend years in the nick for a job I wasn't sure about in the first place!"

Harry's face dropped. "All that lovely money," he grieved, "lost."

"Don't come cryin' to me about it," Newkirk said with no remorse. Then his heart clenched as he added with a low voice, "You 'ave no _idea_ what I've lost."

Then, for a moment forgetting his own grief, Harry looked up at his friend again. "You're talkin' about that bird of yours?" he asked gently.

Newkirk refused to make eye contact. "Forget about it," he said, turning away and focusing his attention on the crate of fabric.

"I guess she must 'ave reacted pretty bad to it all, huh?" he persisted.

"Harry," it was another stern warning. With one steady glare, Newkirk commanded his friend to take the topic no step further. For the past few days and nights, Newkirk had been a mess in prison. He was in no rush to see those emotions be dragged back to the surface again.

Harry read the message loud and clear and dropped the conversation. Newkirk's emotional issues would just have to be like the crate of fabric, which the pair moved to the corner of the room, leaving it to be unpacked and dealt with at some later date.

* * *

**Canon Inspiration for this Chapter: **In the episode "The Great Brinksmeyer Robbery", when Klink unknowingly burns the money needed to pay Ludwig Strauser for an important map, Newkirk pulls the charred bills from the furnace.

Newkirk: It's the story of my life. I never could hang on to money.


	29. A Needed Walk

I ment to post this earlier this morning, but my internet was down for much of the day, and I only got around to it now. So sorry. But please enjoy it now anyway.

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Chapter Twenty Nine: A Needed Walk

The weeks crept by at a painfully slow pace. Newkirk wasn't even very sure what seemed to make time fly so slowly. But after only a few days, he came under the conclusion that being released from prison was almost pointless. The public's harsh opinions and unsympathetic questions converted Peter into a prisoner of a different sort.

He never went out with Harry anymore. It would be a while before Newkirk would feel comfortable working the streets of London again. For the most part, Newkirk confined himself to the Stitch in Time tailor shop, helping Marty on a daily basis instead of a semiweekly one. The only time he left the shop was to run an errand for Nina every now and then. But even in those few instances, he would ask if Harry could do it instead. He just hated being out in public. Newkirk was developing an extremely reclusive nature. He was bitter, he was paranoid, and he was hurt.

The bitterness came from a resentment of the people of London who were so quick to hate him and jeer, but so slow forgive him or just view him as a remorseful human being. They had no trouble viewing him as a monster, someone wicked and alien to themselves. But no one seemed to just see him as a person, as someone who had made a mistake but who wished to reconcile it. No one would choose to look at that repentant side of him because they were too busy looking at the flawed side, too content in their hatred. So a subtle bitterness began to sizzle somewhere in Newkirk's core, and he could only wait to see if it would evaporate over time, or dry out and harden into an impenetrable callous over his heart.

Newkirk was also paranoid after his unpleasant experience with the media. When he left the tailor shop, visions of the next morning's newspaper would flash into his mind, displaying pictures of Newkirk on the front page with another lie streamed over the article like a parade banner. His bitterness towards the London people fed his hesitation to trust them again. He wanted to be normal again. He wanted to walk about town as he once had, but he also didn't want to be lied about again. Newkirk had developed a sensitivity to what people were saying about him, although he would never admit it. Newkirk had never been one to care about what other people thought. But perhaps, in the quietness of his own mind, he could be brave enough to admit that somewhere deep inside of him, it hurt when he knew other people were lying about him. He didn't have to be loved by all. That wasn't his goal. He just couldn't stand being despised by all. So a paranoia sunk in, one that had him looking over his shoulder, and kept him from smiling.

But most of all, Newkirk was hurt. He was mourning. He had lost one of the most important people in his life. Over the recent months, Peter had relinquished a part of his heart to Stephanie. It wasn't like he could just take it back either. Once he had given it, it was hers for good. And now that they were apart, his heart throbbed with an aching desire to be reunited with the missing piece. It truly only felt right when they were together.

But Newkirk's sense of guilt outweighed his sense of longing. The Duke had been right. It was Newkirk's fault that Stephanie was publicly humiliated. As long as he kept his distance from her, Stephanie had a chance to regain her good name. The very same name that Newkirk had dragged through the dirt could still be restored to its original level of respectability. All he had to do was just stay away. And it seemed to be working. Everyday, the number of stories about the whole affair dwindled and were moved to less and less prominent pages in the various newspapers. Still, Newkirk knew it would take a long time before Stephanie could fully build her reputation back up.

As the days passed, and Newkirk continued to seek isolation from the rest of the world, his strange behavior did not go unnoticed by the friends who surrounded him on a daily basis. Marty especially was keenly aware of the younger man's self-imposed exile. The old tailor watched as Newkirk slipped further into his reclusive depression. But Marty wasn't about to let that boy throw his whole life away due to one bad experience. Something had to be done about it.

"Peter, my boy," Marty called on a particularly clear Autumn day.

Newkirk looked up from the seams of a dark blue vest.

Marty stood from his own worktable and reached for his personal overcoat. "I need to run an errand and I should like it if you came along," he said, slipping his arms through the woolly tan sleeves.

Newkirk glanced at the large store window and watched as passersby marched on their way towards errands of their own. Looking back at the tailor, Newkirk replied, "A bit busy with this vest 'ere-"

"The vest can wait," Marty interrupted, "I happen to know that order isn't due for another few days."

"Well, maybe Harry could 'elp."

"I'd really prefer it be you. So come on."

Newkirk hesitated for a moment, trying to think of another excuse that might have better success. Finally, Newkirk sighed as he stood from the work bench and reached for his own jacket.

The pair stepped out of the tailor shop and into the nippy air. Other pedestrians bumped by them, paying no heed to the face which was once the icon of the biggest scandal in London.

"So…where're we 'eaded?" Newkirk asked.

Marty tightened his coat. "We are headed…" he glanced around, almost aimlessly. His voice was slightly visible as his breath clung to the chilly air, creating a fleeting fog. He pointed with a vague gesture, "in that direction." And they started walking.

Newkirk's eyes were fixed on the sidewalk directly in front of him for a long time. He kept Marty's shoes in his line of vision so that he could follow the tailor's direction, but Newkirk never looked up unless he had to. They walked several blocks that way and after a while, Newkirk's curiosity got the better of him and he raised his head. He took a look around him before asking, "So exactly what is this errand we're on?"

"We're doing it now," Marty answered. He looked to his side and caught Newkirk's questioning expression. The older man hiked his shoulders, "I just wanted to get you out of the shop for a bit."

Newkirk rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Oh, come on, Marty," he groaned, "What's the idea 'ere?"

"I already told you the 'idea', Peter. You've been tucked away for far too long now. It's time you got some fresh air."

Newkirk nodded with controlled irritation, "Alright, well, I've 'ad me fresh air. Thank you. So can't we just 'ead back now?" Even as he spoke, the young man started to alter his course on the sidewalk.

Marty's hand swiftly grabbed Newkirk by the arm and withheld his retreat. "I don't think so, Peter. I want to have a talk with you."

Sighing, Newkirk fell back into step with Marty and the pair kept walking.

Marty let a few moments of silence tick by before he began the conversation. "So, tell me what the trouble is, Peter."

"There is no trouble, Marty. I just like to be 'ome, that's all," Newkirk tried to make the words sound genuine.

But the old man knew Newkirk too well to be fooled. Marty shook his head slowly and let his eyes wander around the city. "No, that's not it," he said quietly. "I need you to be honest with me, son. You haven't been yourself for weeks now and I want to know what the matter is." A short silence passed before Marty added, "I want to help you, my boy."

Newkirk's eyes dropped to the pavement once more. "I don't think you can," he admitted softly.

Marty looked over at Newkirk and noted, not for the first time, the young man's posture. "Is it because of the cameras? And the news stories? Is that it?"

Newkirk sighed and shook his head, "No, not really. I mean, they ain't a walk in the park, but…you know…" the words trailed off as Newkirk tightened his jacket around him.

Silence filled the space between the two men once more. Martin knew that Newkirk would get talking again when he was ready. So the patient tailor waited for his friend to open up. It was nearly a full five minutes before either one spoke again.

"I just hate this, Marty," he said. "Nothin's like it used to be. Before all this, I didn't care about the papers. I didn't care who saw me when I went out. It was like I was invisible. No one could see me." Newkirk paused to let the thoughts form in his head before continuing. "I didn't realize it, but I liked it then. I liked being invisible. I 'ad it good before…but now…" Newkirk sighed. "I just wish things would go back to normal…I just wish none of this had 'appened."

"None?" Marty asked pointedly.

Immediately, Peter's mind flashed to Stephanie. He remembered all of their clandestine meetings on the rooftops of the city. He remembered the look of concern on her face as she doctored his bloody lip after the brawl with those two idiots in that alleyway. He remembered how easy it was to make her laugh with his impressions and how she playfully posed when asking if he would draw a picture of her. He remembered her timid expression and her shaking hands as he leaned in to kiss her for the first time. He remembered exactly how that first kiss, and each kiss after that, felt and tasted, and how every one of them shot shivers up his spine. He remembered how smoothly they glided over the ballroom floor, like birds across calm water. And he remembered the broken expression on her face as the Inspector pulled him away from her at the ball. The hurt, the betrayal in her eyes was still as vivid to Newkirk as the sidewalk at his feet. He could never forget that look.

"When…when I was locked up," Newkirk began slowly. "'er dad came to see me."

Clearly, Marty had not been expecting that. It was the first time Newkirk had mentioned his visitor, and it caught the old tailor a little off guard. Still, he maintained his composer and simply asked, "What did he want?"

Newkirk shrugged, "To talk. He 'ad a copy of the paper with 'im. You remember what it said?"

Of course Marty remembered. It was the first time he and Nina had discovered Newkirk's hidden life as a criminal. They had been shocked and dismayed to read the article and they both struggled to believe its accuracy. They eventually came to the conclusion that the accusations against his motives for dating Stephanie, as well as the other obvious lies, were completely unfounded…but in the end, neither one could deny that the boy was indeed a thief. It stung at their hearts and guilt and pity overtook the couple in the following days. Every copy of that article they could get their hands on went straight into the small furnace in the workshop, but even that couldn't erase the lies from Marty's memory.

"I remember," Marty said at last.

Newkirk shook his head sadly, "It made Stephanie out to be some sort of…" he searched for a long time to find the right word. "Oh, I don't know. But they painted 'er like a villain, and she didn't do anything wrong," he said firmly. "Now the whole country thinks she is some rebellious kid who wanted to steal from 'er own father! Or they think she's just naive and can't tell when someone's takin' advantage of 'er…and the worst part about it is…it's all because of me."

Marty came to a halt and grabbed Newkirk's arm, encouraging him to stop. "Now, wait a minute," the tailor warned.

"I made all the mistakes 'ere, Marty! Steph didn't do anything wrong. I did! And now she's takin' the heat for it. The papers weren't flashin' fake stories about 'er before she met me. People weren't tellin' lies about 'er. Everyone loved 'er before she met me. Don't you get it, Marty? They hate 'er now! They hate 'er because of me! She would 'ave been better off if we 'ad never even met! All I bring 'er is trouble!"

Now the two men were standing in the middle of the sidewalk. As the conversation grew more heated, more and more pedestrians stopped and watched. When Newkirk paused and saw all of the blatant faces starring at him, something inside him just erupted.

"WHAT?" he yelled, causing his audience to jump slightly. "What do you want from me? What more can you people possibly take?" He turned around in a complete circle, taking a moment to stare each of his watchers in the eyes. Everyone looked extremely uncomfortable by the confrontation, but no one gave him an answer. Newkirk grunted in frustration. "Get out of my way," he ordered as he marched through the small crowd and swiftly made his way down the sidewalk.

"Peter!" Marty called. But the young man's pace didn't falter a single step. Sighing, Martin started to follow him. But he hadn't made three feet's progress before a hand was on his arm, stilling his movements.

"Wait a minute. Do you know that chump?" the tone of the man's voice was one of disgusted accusation.

Martin glanced around and noticed that the whole crowd was now starring at him. He raised his head to look the tall man squarely in the eye. "Yes I do," he declared, purposefully making his voice loud enough for everyone to hear. "I_ know_ Peter Newkirk…unlike any of you," his voice growled with an intensity that surprised all of the listeners. "You people who think you can understand the heart of a man after seeing ink on a page. You who think mistakes can be made, but they cannot be forgiven…just as long as they're not your own. Well, I happen to know that man more intimately than any of you could ever understand. I know who he really is, not just who he's portrayed to be by some reporter with an itching to sell papers. I'm telling you I _know_ him. So don't mislead yourselves into thinking you actually do, too." With a jerking movement, Marty removed his arm from the tall man's grasp and turned to follow Peter, leaving the small crowd to watch in silence.


	30. A Needed Talk

Chapter Thirty: A Needed Talk

Newkirk's heavy footsteps pounded across the dusty surface of the roof as he made his way to the edge of the building. He leaned against the small protective wall of the roof and let his gaze span across the city. His eyes squinted against the bright sun. He wasn't used to being up there during the midday. Usually, when he and Stephanie would meet at this place, it was in the evening when the sun was already dim. But everything was different now. In the daylight, the city looked less romantic, less dreamy. Without the twinkling lights against the cool backdrop of the city, and all the swirls of sunset colors floating in the sky, London looked like a bland valley of heartless stones, stoic and cold. The city's outstanding size at night was breathtaking; but in the daytime, the large metropolis was simply intimidating. It was amazing how differently things could appear when they were exposed.

Then, Newkirk heard heavy breathing from somewhere behind him. Turning swiftly around, Newkirk was surprised to see, "Marty? What are you doin' here?"

The old man opened his mouth to speak, but in the end, he only gasped for more air. He held up his finger, as if asking for a moment to catch his breath.

Immediately, Peter left his post by the building's edge and came to assist Marty to a relatively clean seat on a small crate. "Now take your time," Newkirk encouraged calmly.

Marty nodded and gulped once, "Those…those stairs…aren't very accommodating to these old knees…nor this old heart, as a matter of fact."

"Well, what are you doin' up 'ere anyway?" Newkirk asked, starring down at the old tailor with concern.

"I had to follow you…I had to make sure you didn't…"

Newkirk just looked at him blankly.

Marty hiked his shoulders, now having caught most of his breath. "Well, what was I supposed to think, Peter? Seeing a young man as discouraged as you climb to the top of a tall building, alone?"

Realization dawned on Newkirk's features and he shook his head disappointedly. "Come on, Marty. Give me some credit 'ere."

"Well," Marty said, dusting his hands off from the dirty hand railing. "Why _did_ you come up here, then?"

Newkirk turned and looked at the familiar rooftop, his eyes landing on his and Stephanie's special area, by the tall smokestack. "This is where me and Steph would meet. It was our own little world up 'ere."

Marty looked around the rooftop and cocked an eyebrow. He finally decided that he could indeed imagine the young couple spending their time up here, under the stars. Nodding his head, he said, "I see."

"It was quiet, we were alone…no one could find us. It was perfect 'ere." Newkirk slowly panned his eyes across the rooftop as he spoke. "At first we started comin' 'ere because we needed some…mutual ground. All the joints I 'ung around at weren't really respectable enough for 'er, and all of the places she was used to goin' weren't about to let me through the doors. But this place…we were equal 'ere."

Marty nodded his head slowly. He and Nina had fallen in love and married as members of the same social class. In his and Nina's courtship, Marty had never had to deal with those sorts of concerns. He had never really considered the difficulties that must have faced Newkirk through his whole relationship with Stephanie.

"Then," Newkirk continued, "once the papers started…you know, seein' us and talkin'…this roof was one of the few places were we were safe from 'em…pretty soon, it was the only place. We came here just to be out of sight, to be alone."

Again, Marty nodded quietly. He watched Newkirk carefully as the younger man stared intently at one particular smokestack. It was clear that Newkirk's mind was somewhere in the past, and Marty could all but see the images and they scrolled past his young friend's eyes. Marty waited a moment and let the memories parade by. Then he softly observed, "You miss her a great deal?" The words came out sounding like a question even though the perceptive tailor needed no response for confidence in the answer.

Newkirk breathed in and nodded his head, his eyes still observing the past. "Yeah," he said, "I do."

"Then why not go and see her?"

Suddenly, that brought Newkirk back to the present. He glanced at Marty and then crossed his arms, shaking his head and saying, "No, I couldn't do that."

Marty's eyebrows raised in question. "Why not?" he asked.

Newkirk kicked a broken brick around on the ground. Shaking his head softly he answered, "It would only make things worse. When she's around me, she just gets trouble. People spread all kind of lies about 'er….No, it just makes 'er life even worse. She doesn't want to see me."

"Have you spoken to her since your arrest?" Marty asked, noticing how Newkirk's shoulders tensed slightly at the question.

"No."

"Then how do you know she wouldn't like to see you?"

"When 'er dad came, he made it very clear that everything would be better if I just disappeared for a while."

Marty scowled at this news. How dare that man say such a thing to Newkirk, whom he hardly even knew? "Is that why you haven't been leaving the shop much recently?" the older man asked.

"Well…that's part of it I guess."

Marty shook his head sadly. That Duke had scared Newkirk into reclusion, and for no good reason! Fatherly instincts swelled within the old tailor, and he decided that if he should ever meet the Duke face to face, he would have a few choice words planned for the bully. But that sort of thinking wasn't going to make this problem go away. Somehow, Marty knew he had to encourage Newkirk to move past his fears and confront Stephanie. So much needed to be said between them.

"Peter…my boy, have a seat," the tailor said sadly. After Newkirk obeyed, Marty remained quiet for a moment, trying to formulate the words in his head. "Have you ever heard me mention my brother Francis?"

Puzzled, Newkirk simply shook his head.

"We were business partners for several years. We had a small printing company in Glasgow. Francis was really the genius behind it all and handled most of the money. He really didn't need me much at all. I think the only reason he gave me a share in the business was because our mother must have told him to do so," Marty smiled fondly.

"Then one day," the tailor continued, "a friend of mine introduced an investment opportunity to me. It sounded like a good idea. I was so young, I wasn't thinking. I took seventy-five percent of the company's funds and invested them in this deal. I didn't even tell Francis. I thought it would make a nice birthday present for him when the money came back doubled…but it didn't. In fact, the money didn't come back at all. Within a month, the business was struggling to get by on one fourth its usual finances. Naturally, the company caved beneath the pressure.

"I felt a tremendous amount of guilt, Peter. I didn't only ruin the business; I ruined my very own brother. Ashamed, I took Nina away and we moved here, to London. I started over, taking various jobs around town. Eventually I settled down as a tailor, working at an esteemed clothes company that has since gone out of business. I didn't speak to my brother after I moved here. Like I said, I was ashamed. I felt guilty for taking his money without permission. He wrote me letters, but I wouldn't open them. I knew what they said even without reading them. I already knew what I had done wrong, how I had hurt him. I didn't need to have it told to me in a letter.

"Then…The World War broke out. Francis and I both joined the battle, he on the seas, and I in the trenches." Marty's eyes glazed over with a curtain of pain, reliving horrors every soldier prayed to forget. Now it was Newkirk's turn to wait patiently as the memories paraded by. Blinking suddenly, Marty tried to wipe away the past.

Breathing in deeply and straightening his shoulders, Marty flung the trenches aside and continued in his story. "I discovered shortly after I returned home that Francis' ship had been destroyed by a German U-Boat. Nina and I returned to Glasgow for the memorial service. In the will…" Marty pinched his lips together firmly, blinking back a few determined tears. "In his will, Francis spoke about how much me loved and missed me. He said he couldn't understand why I had abandoned him all those years ago; and more than anything, he just wanted reconciliation for the relationship that was once so dear…. I had no idea."

Newkirk listened quietly, staring at the rooftop floor. He looked up when he felt the old man's hand on his shoulder.

"So you see, Peter," the tailor continued, "you cannot let one simple mistake condemn your entire relationship with Stephanie. Yes, you were foolish. Yes, you made a mistake. And yes, it's likely that you hurt her. But Peter, my dear boy, do not be misled into believing that you understand another person's emotions without first speaking to them and hearing their side of the story. Go to her, Peter. Speak to her. If for no other reason, do it to apologize to her face. Whatever way you can, make this thing right. Do not make the mistake I made by running away and hiding, always assuming time would afford me a day when I could make amends with my brother. In my experience, I've found that time is scarcely so generous…. Go to her, Peter. Just talk to her."

Newkirk could hardly argue. Over all the years he had known Marty, and especially in the recent month, Newkirk had grown to appreciate the advice he received from the old man. Marty had never steered him wrong, not even once. If Marty said it was a good idea to talk to Stephanie, Peter had no reason to doubt him.

But the notion of seeing Stephanie again elicited two intense feelings in Newkirk. On one hand, Newkirk's mind could not shake the image of Stephanie's wounded expression as he was being carted away to prison. With all the time he had let slip by, there was a chance that Stephanie was coping and getting on with her life. Newkirk didn't want to risk seeing here and tearing open a wound that might have only just begun to heal. Not to mention the discomfort it would be to Newkirk himself, having to relive the most humiliating and tragic event of his young life.

But at the same time, he ached to be with Stephanie again. He missed her so much. After going for so long, seeing Stephanie nearly everyday, suddenly losing that consistent companionship was like having a rug pulled from beneath his feet. He couldn't ignore the callings from his heart, begging him to just give it a moment with Stephanie again. All he wanted was too see her, explain as best he could, beg her to forgive him. He wanted to turn back time and take the mistake back. But he knew he couldn't. All he could do was attempt to mend what he had broken.

Newkirk's cynical mind prepared himself for the worst, but somewhere in an unassuming corner of his heart, Newkirk dared to let himself hope that maybe…just maybe…Stephanie might take him back.


	31. In the Garden

**Author's Note:** Once again, I must say I am sorry for the delay in posting this chapter. But hopefully, the OUTRAGIOUS length will make up for that fact! Honestly, when I was through writing this chapter, and saw that it spanned ten pages, I immediately started looking for a place to break up the scene. But I really couldn't find a place that would be good for it. So you get to read a super long chapter instead. ENJOY!

Chapter Thirty One: In the Garden

The first time Peter made this walk was nearly three weeks ago and he had been suited in fine clothes befitting a gentleman. But this time, as Peter ascended the brick walkway to Stephanie's front door, he was just himself. No fancy clothes, no put-on accent, it was just plain old Newkirk. With his ordinary trousers, his ordinary shirt, and his ordinary cap, Newkirk was done with putting on an act. This time, all facades were turned off, all shields were lowered, and it was just him.

If he had been nervous the first time he knocked on that giant door, it was nothing compared to the trepidation he felt now. Every nerve in his body trembled as he raised his fist and knocked three times on the solid oak. Newkirk stepped back a few feet and waited.

A butler peered at him through a nearby window and then within a few moments, the wide door was swinging open. "May I help you?" the butler asked with a dreary-sounding voice.

Newkirk recognized this butler. It was the same chap who showed him in last time. Newkirk nodded, "Uh, yes. I'd like to see Stephanie, please."

"I am sorry, but-"

"Come on, mate. Just a few minutes. I only want to talk to 'er," Newkirk pleaded.

"As I was saying," the stuffy butler continued, "I regret to inform you that Lady Chambers has expressed a wish not to speak with you."

"She wha'?" Newkirk's heart hit the ground. "A-are you sure you 'eard 'er right?"

"I'm afraid so. So sorry, Mr. Newkirk," the butler said, though he didn't seem very remorseful.

"Well, should I come back a bit later?" Newkirk was desperate for any sign of hope.

"No, I don't think so." Then, without a word more, the cold butler closed the door, the large hunk of wood making a swallowing sound as it swung on its enormous hinges to close.

Newkirk just stared at the door. What was he supposed to do now? How could he try to make things right if she wouldn't even see him? Feeling utterly defeated, Newkirk knew nothing else to do but turn around and head home. At least he had tried. If nothing else, he could tell Marty that he tried.

As Newkirk retraced his steps back up the brick path, he was surprised to hear the door yawn behind him as it opened once more. Newkirk's heavy heart became slightly lighter as he turned around. But the young lady who came scurrying towards him was not the lady he had hoped it to be.

The young woman looked nervous and slightly sneaky as she glanced over her shoulder several times. She looked up at all the windows before finally approaching Newkirk.

"Mr. Newkirk," she said.

Peter just nodded.

"Lady Stephanie is on the terrace. She's having tea there with her mother and sister."

Newkirk didn't know this woman, but her expression was immensely kinder than that of the butler. Nevertheless, there wasn't much help the small woman could afford him. He shook his head sadly. "She doesn't want to see me. I just make everything worse," he admitted.

The young woman looked desperate. "Please sir," she said, "I know what Cumberly told you just now, and I know it sounds bad, but please sir…I'm one of her lady's maids and I'm with her everyday. I honestly think it would do her good to talk with you. Even if it's just a little while. I know she still thinks about you. I just want to see her happy again."

Newkirk was touched by the earnest emotions he saw in the young lady. "What's your name?" he asked after a while.

"Gloria, sir," was her quiet reply.

He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, "Well, Gloria, I want to talk to 'er. Honest, I do. But I can 'ardly 'elp it if she won't see me."

"But she will! If you just go there, she'll have no choice! Please, just for a little while! I'll take you there!" Gloria grabbed Newkirk's hand and quickly began to tow him around the back of the large house, giving him no time to argue. She halted abruptly at a tall bush.

"There, on the terrace" she said, pointing.

Newkirk peered through the branches until he finally saw the three women. They sat at a small table by the banister of a very large and lovely terrace. He could make out Vivian's and Harriet's faces, but Stephanie's back was towards him. The Duke was nowhere to be seen.

"I cannot go further than this," Gloria whispered. "If they find out I led you here, I could lose my job."

"I understand, Gloria," Newkirk whispered back. Then, shaking her hand, he added, "Thank you."

"You're very welcome. Good luck, sir!" And then she was off, scurrying back the way she had come.

With one solid gulp, Newkirk stood up straight and walked around the bush, setting a steady march towards the terrace.

Vivian noticed him first. Her eyes widened in shock and she appeared to gasp something. When Harriet saw him, she, too, displayed a look of surprise, though she remained silent. Newkirk nervously continued to approach the three women. He tried to appear friendly and smile at Vivian and the Duchess, but the weak attempt failed quickly. When he finally reached the base of the terrace, he stopped.

Stephanie was evidently in the middle of a story and hence hadn't noticed the startled expressions on her loved ones' faces. Finally, the Duchess interrupted. "Stephanie, dear…"

When Stephanie looked up, her mother simply gave a pointed look in Newkirk's direction. Stephanie turned around in her chair. The moment she saw him, she took in a slight breath. Her brow furrowed and her lips frowned, perplexed.

The moment their gazes collided, Newkirk regretted coming. She didn't look happy to see him at all. The pain was still evident in her eyes, but something else had grown there also. There was a bitterness, a resentment that nested in her chocolate brown gaze as well. The longer he stared into her eyes, the more and more the hope of Stephanie leaping into his arms with joy fell to pieces in Newkirk's mind. How could he ever make this right?

"Peter," she gasped simply.

He tried smiling again, "'ello, Steph."

She shook her head softly. "What are you doing here?" she asked after a while.

Newkirk glanced at his shoes. Just being in her presence hurt. He looked up and hiked his shoulders slightly. "I just want to talk, Steph," he confessed.

She turned her back to him and sat properly in her chair once more. Newkirk watched helplessly as her mother and sister leaned in and the three women began whispering. He couldn't make much of it out. The only thing he was sure he heard was Vivian whispering, "You know you'll regret it if you don't." Good ol' Vivian! Newkirk knew he always liked her.

Finally, Stephanie sighed and stood from her seat. She turned around and placed her hands daintily on the banister. "Alright," she said, "I'll speak with you for a moment."

She descended the stairs and approached Peter. The young pair glanced awkwardly at each other, only agreeing to make eye contact for the briefest of seconds before looking away. They slowly sidestepped away from the terrace, continuing to glance about awkwardly. Then Stephanie set a confident course towards the garden area. Peter looked up at Harriet and Vivian, gave them both a thankful nod, and then turned to follow Stephanie.

They made their way into what would, in springtime, be a lovely rose garden. But in these autumn months, most of what was once green and vibrant was now brown and shriveled. And the lovely petals and leaves, which once coated and made beautiful these many branches, now lay broken and dead across the cold ground. Amidst this ugly wasteland, Newkirk was painfully reminded of the beauty that had left his relationship with Stephanie. Now they, too, were as cold as bare branches.

Stephanie abruptly turned around and faced Newkirk. The once happy couple now stood silently in that garden and viewed each other with sad and hurt eyes. Neither one spoke for a while because neither one knew exactly what to say.

Stephanie crossed her arms and broke the eye contact. "What is it you want, Peter?" she asked.

Again, Newkirk hiked his shoulders. He had rehearsed this meeting for hours; but somehow, when it came time to actually deliver the practiced lines, the words drained from his memory and Newkirk's mouth was left dry. "Well, I…I just…I love you, and-"

"No Peter," she said firmly. "Don't start it there. At this moment, I'm having trouble believing that. People in love do not _lie_ to one another."

"I never lied to you, Stephanie," he said.

"You robbed that man, Peter! You stole from him. And you don't think at any moment in our relationship it would have been a good idea to tell me you were a _criminal_?"

"But I never lied to you," Newkirk insisted.

"You knew the truth and _deliberately_ hid it from me. That is deceit, Peter! It's the same thing!"

"Well excuse me for not airin' out all me faults and shortcomings during one of our dates!"

Stephanie rolled her eyes. "What I don't understand is how the Peter I knew could be such a cold-hearted criminal," she said frustratingly, flinging her hands in an overwhelmed gesture and beginning to pace back and forth. "It's not as though you were hiding your past from me. You robbed that man while we were still seeing each other! How could you do something like that and never even mention it?"

"You never asked, so I never 'ad to tell you."

"Oh, come off it, Peter. Don't you dare use that as an excuse! Of course I wasn't about to ask if you were a thief. I _trusted_ you! I defended your character to every single person who questioned it, and this is what you do with the faith I put in you? You lied to me, Peter. You made me think you were someone else."

"Well, then you can go back to your family and tell 'em they were all bloody right! I _am_ nothin' but a ruddy crook! Are you 'appy now?"

"Of course not," she pouted.

"Because that's really what it sounds like you want to 'ear. If you thought I was such scum, why'd you keep seein' me?"

"Because I cared for you! I wanted to believe the best about you! I…I loved you," she said quietly.

Newkirk's scowled face continued to stare steadily at Stephanie. But when he heard her say those words in the past-tense, his brows quivered and he struggled to keep his emotions stable. He bowed his head and pinched his lips tightly together, forbidding himself to cry.

"Why did you do it, Peter?" she asked softly, and he could hear the tears already filling her voice.

He shook his head. "That's somethin' you could never understand," he said.

"Well try to make me. I'm desperate, Peter. I want to know what could possibly possess you to do such a thing."

"It's a different life than what you've known, Stephanie. You've 'ad everything you've ever needed provided for you! Every night, you've spent in a bed! Every day you've 'ad nice clothes to wear! You don't know what it's like to skip a meal because there just isn't any food to be 'ad," Newkirk said, recalling the desperate days of his youth. Slowly, his voice started to build in intensity. "But out on the streets, out in the real world, things are different. I was tossed out of me 'ome at fifteen, Stephanie. Fifteen! And London 'asn't got a lot of folks lookin' to take in a stray kid. From an early age, I've 'ad to fend for meself. And out 'ere, if you want food, you steal it," he said flatly. "That's just the way things are. End of story. You get used to taken things to survive, and after a while, you even get good at it. So to a man who's never 'ad more than change jinglin' in 'is pockets, when the chance comes along to get a few thousands pounds, you bet I'll take it!"

"But it's wrong, Peter. Didn't it ever occur to you that what you did was wrong?"

"I just told you I 'ad to do it! In a world like this, a bloke like me 'asn't got a chance if he 'asn't got any money. I'm sorry if you don't like it but survivin' is a bit more important to me than obeyin' the law."

Stephanie shook her head slowly. She wasn't about to be taken-in by Newkirk's deception again. "Perhaps stealing food is about surviving. But robbing thousands of pounds from a man, that's about _greed_. What thing vital to your survival could have _possibly_ required that much money?"

Newkirk shook his head and turned away from her. He didn't know how to answer her.

"You threw me away, Peter."

Newkirk glanced up sharply. His eyes didn't focus on anything in particular, but Stephanie's words echoed in his head, growing in volume on each repeat. He had thrown her away.

"Everything we had together Peter, everything we shared…you just threw it away...for money," the closing words sounded so cold leaving her mouth. She had little sympathy for him and even less understanding. She thought he had loved her.

Now he could hear the tears choking Stephanie's voice. It was difficult for him to hear the pain in her words. But it hurt even worse knowing that what she said was true. Newkirk bowed his head in shame. He turned around and looked back up at her, shaking his head softly. "You're right. I didn't need it."

Stephanie blinked, surprised. She hadn't expected him to just admit that so squarely.

"I was wrong. It was a mistake," he said honestly. "I shouldn't 'ave done it. I just thought…I thought 'aving more money would make things easier." He struggled to hold back the tears. "But Stephanie, I never wanted to lose you." He blinked and a single tear dashed from his eye. He pinched his trembling lips together and shook his head sadly. "I am _so_ sorry, Steph. I never wanted this to 'appen. I never would 'ave done it if I knew I risked losing you."

Stephanie had lost the battle against tears long ago. But seeing his sincere confession caused something in her to break. She finally relented to the harsh sobs that had been pressing against her throat. Still trying to remain strong though, she crossed her arms and simply bowed her head in tears.

Peter cautiously approached her. He knew that she was upset with him right now, but he hated seeing her cry and he just wanted it to stop. So after taking a few steps, he wrapped her gently in his arms and the once lovers simply held each other and wept. She rested her head against his chest and cried helplessly into his shirt. He stroked her hair and rubbed comforting circles into her back, his own tears silent but plentiful.

After a few heartbreaking moments had passed, and most of the tears had subsided, the two finally began to pull apart. Peter peered down at Stephanie with sad eyes. He brushed wild strands of her hair back into place and frowned when he noticed she refused to meet his gaze. He didn't ask, he just continued to study her face.

She sniffed and continued to look away. "Why did you wait so long?" she asked glancing up at him before quickly looking away again.

"Before…" he searched.

"Before you came here, to me," Stephanie answered. "I know you were released from prison _weeks_ ago. Why did you wait so long?" she asked desperately.

Peter hiked his shoulders softly. He considered asking her how she knew about his release date, but figured that she probably had her ways. He tried to answer her, but he had no words with which to explain his hesitation. "I guess I was scared," he said at last.

She looked up at him with her arms still lightly hugging him. "Scared of me?" she asked.

He smirked sadly. "Scared of a lot of things," he answered. Then, lifting his shoulders a little, he elaborated, "I guess I just thought things would be better if I just disappeared for a little while…give life time to get back to normal."

"I wish you hadn't waited so long," she cried, turning her face back into his chest as her shoulders began to shake from the tears once more.

He tried to soothe her, holding her head against him and patting her back softly. " 'ere now," he said, "Easy there, lovie. I'm 'ere now, aren't I? We can start over. Do it all right this time."

She pushed away from his chest, turning her face so that she wasn't looking at him. "You don't understand," she lamented.

His brow furrowed in confusion. "Don't understand what?"

"That we can't make this work, Peter."

His face scowled. "Why not?" he demanded stubbornly. "We'll just start over, you and me. 'ho cares what the papers say. We can make this right," Peter insisted.

"No, Peter," she said firmly. "I mean, we shan't have the chance to make it work."

Peter's words were stilled at that. He stared at her, trying with every ounce of his logical capacity to contemplate what she could possibly mean.

She had distanced herself from him by several feet. She looked at him with sloped eyebrows and pouting lips. She crossed her arms over her chest. "We're not staying in London much longer," she finally said. She could hardly stand to look at him in the eye when she told him. His face was instantly masked by a fog of broken disappointment, and she could all but hear his heart hit the garden floor with an empty thud.

He didn't say a word. He couldn't. So Stephanie looked away as she tried to explain. "My father has had a hard time here since…that night. He's not respected anymore amongst his peers here in London. He feels his political career here is nonexistent now and we might be better off back in Langbourne."

"He's moving you to Langbourne?" Peter asked quietly.

Stephanie simply nodded. Her chin quivered as she fought to keep her tears from spilling out again.

Newkirk looked back towards the large house. He could just make out the terrace through the naked branches of the garden. He seemed in a daze, as though sense suddenly became like nonsense, and two and two stopped equaling four. He looked back at her with hopeless eyes. "When?" he asked softly.

She choked on the words. "We leave in the morning," she answered, her voice squeaking back a sob.

"Tomorrow?" he exclaimed. One day, he had only _one day_ with her? No! That couldn't be! He couldn't let that happen. Somehow, fire was struck into his eyes again and energy filled his countenance once more. "No," he said firmly, striding up to her and grasping her hands in his. He gently pulled her further into the garden. "I won't let that happen. I won't let them take you from me."

"Peter, we can't-"

"Yes we can," he insisted. "Stay with me, Stephanie."

"What?" she scoffed unbelievingly.

"No, we can do it! You and me, Stephanie. We don't need them. We can make it on our own."

She eyed him seriously. "What are you saying, Peter?"

"I'm saying let your family go to Langbourne. Let them go to the moon if they will. You and me, we can make it." He brought her hands up to his mouth and gave tender kisses to each of them. He pleaded her with his gaze. "Stay with me, Steph," he said, leaning in to place a kiss on her cheek. "Marry me," he said.

Stephanie's eyes shot open, but Peter couldn't tell.

He moved his kiss to the side of her forehead. "We can start a family of our own, Steph. You and me," he said gently. "We'll be so happy." He released her hands and clasped her sides of her face tenderly. "Stay with me here, Steph. Be my wife," he implored before leaning in and kissing her. He poured all of his love into that kiss, knowing it was a promise, a promise to give her all the love and attention she deserved forevermore.

If they could, they would have always denied that kiss an ending. But eventually, the young couple had to pull away. Peter stroked her cheeks lovingly. From all of the crying she had done, her cheeks and nose were left with blotches of redness on the skin, and if Peter wasn't so preoccupied with her answer, he would have noticed just how adorable it made her look at that moment.

He questioned her with his eyes. "So, will you marry me, Stephanie?"

She looked deep into his eyes and was convinced of his love for her. If she had questioned it before, she certainly failed to do so now. Her mind flew into the future, and she watched as she and Peter started a life together. He started a new career and they bought a house, nothing fancy...just what they needed. She saw a yard with a birdbath and a nice little fence with a quaint little gate. She saw children playing in the front yard, climbing trees and playing chase with the family dog. She saw Peter returning home from work, walking up the garden path to the cottage door. She saw herself greeting him with a kiss before calling the children in for supper. A soft smile came to her lips.

She let her eyes focus on Peter's once more. Then she turned her to gaze at her present home. The smile faltered slightly. What he was asking from her was no small thing. He wanted her to abandon her family, abandon all that she had known her entire life. She didn't know that she was ready to be out on her own just yet. Like Peter had pointed out earlier, she didn't have much experience in the "real world". And the thought of leaving her family, her father, her mother, and Vivian…it frightened her. Whenever she needed them, her family had always been there. But what would happen if she and Peter ran off together? What if Stephanie needed her mother for something? She would never be able to have that level of communication to which she had grown so accustomed through her lifetime. She would be alone. Other than Peter, everything in her world would become foreign to her.

She looked back at Peter with obvious fear in her eyes.

He continued to wait for her response, subtly cocking one eyebrow.

Slowly, she shook her head. "I can't," she said softly.

Peter scowled in concern. "What do you mean you can't?"

She hiked her shoulders mildly. "I can't leave my family," she said, wiggling out of his grasp and stepping away. "I need them."

He shook his head, reaching out to make her stay. "No you don't. You need me," he pleaded. "Come on Stephanie, we can make this work. I promise. Everything will be alright."

"You can't make that promise, Peter. Are you even ready for marriage? This is a big step you're suggesting. Do you think you're prepared to be a husband? To provide for a wife? To care for a family? We're talking about a major life change. You cannot be impulsive about this."

"I'm not trying to be impulsive," he defended weakly. "But you said your family is leavin' in the mornin'. We don't 'ave a lot of time to fool around 'ere. If we're going to do this, we need to just do it. No thinking, no planning, just…do it."

"But it's reckless. You can't know what will happen!"

"Of course not. We can never know for sure what's goin' to 'appen. That's the point of life, Steph, to go through it without knowing for sure what'll 'appen. But I know we can do this, Stephanie. I know we can make this work."

She glanced back at the house.

Peter reached and grabbed her hands once more. "Please Stephanie," he pleaded quietly. "I love you. Don't leave me."

Then, from across the empty yard, the young couple heard the door to the terrace open and close. Stephanie and Peter turned and saw the Duke walk out onto the terrace and approach his wife and eldest daughter.

Peter pulled on Stephanie's hands, trying to guide her through the garden. "Come on, Steph," he encouraged. "Trust me."

Stephanie looked back at the house, torn. She felt the bond she had with her family being peeled away from the surface of her heart. The tears came to her eyes once more. She planted her feet and forced Peter to stop pulling her. She looked up at his face and saw the expression of dread in his eyes. Slowly and sadly, Stephanie shook her head. "I can't," she whispered, stepping back. "I'm so sorry. But I can't!" Her hands slipped out of his, and in a new wave of tears, she turned and fled towards the house.

Newkirk stood frozen in the garden, unable to move, unable to speak, unable to think; only able to feel as his heart disintegrated and mixed into the dirt below him.


	32. Saying Goodbye

Chapter Thirty Two: Saying Goodbye

Germany – Luftstalag 13 – September 29, 1942

_Dear Peter,_

_I know you must be surprised to be reading this letter. Frankly, I'm not too keen on writing it either. But if you are reading this, it means I'm dead. I know it probably comes as a shock to you, but as I write this, I've been expecting it to happen for quite some time. You wouldn't know this, because you and I never discussed it during our time together, but I was always very sick as a child. Mum and Dad always got me the best doctors and arranged for me to stay at home instead of a hospital room, so I still had a fairly normal childhood. I started to get better as I grew and by the time I met you, I had been healthy for nearly nine full years. That's why I never mentioned it to you; I thought I had passed it. But now I don't think so. Anyway, it doesn't look like I'll be sure to beat it this time. So I'm writing you this letter because you and I both know that when I left you there in that garden, there were many things left unsaid on both fronts. Well for my part, I'm sick of not saying them. So here it is…_

_I loved you, Peter. Never, ever be convinced I didn't! I never listened to those things other people said about you. I didn't care __what__ you were, or what you did. All I knew was __who__ you were, and there was nothing shameful to be seen there. You were real, you were genuine. You didn't treat me differently when you learned who I was. I get so sick of people putting a filter on everything they say or do around me because they know who my parents are! But you, Peter, never used that filter with me. I knew the man you really were, and I fell in love with him. I never would have left you if it had been up to me. I know you've never believed it, but I swear it's true that the choice was never my own. I had to leave. I wanted to stay, but it just wasn't realistic. Maybe you could make it on your own, Peter, but I couldn't. I needed my family with me. So that is why I left. I wasn't running from you, or the papers, or any of it. I was simply following. I pray that you will be able to believe me someday. I really did love you._

_As for those lies, I never believed them. I pray you never let those fools get under your skin. You are a good man, Peter, a noble man even. Sometimes these days in England, I think that we've used the word "noble" too freely, and hence lost sight of its meaning. But your heart, Peter, is noble in its truest sense. You are smarter and deeper, and your heart is truer than many (if not most) of the people our nation today calls "noblemen". I was honoured to know you as intimately as I did. If only the rest of the world could have a chance to know you half as well. _

_I don't even know if you still care, but if you do, Peter, please don't mourn too severely over me. I am not even sure how much grief I've caused you already through the years, but it would break me to cause any more to you. So if remembering me makes you sad, I pray you forget me quickly. Because I'd hate to see those beautiful eyes cry on account of me. _

_While I'm thinking of it, I will include along with this letter a necklace of mine. I found it two weeks after you and I were separated. My heart stopped when I saw it in the jewe__lle__ry store because this little necklace was the exact colour I remember your eyes being. I wore it and thought of you even after we were apart. So keep it now, Peter. I couldn't bear the thought of someone else wearing it._

_I suppose that's all I will say, this page is losing room quickly. Now, I have to say goodbye. I love you Peter and will never forget the wonderful time we had together. _

_Unregretful,_

_Stephanie_

Newkirk's eyes returned to staring blankly at the page. He wasn't sure how many times he had read the letter now; it was probably close to half a dozen. No matter how many times he read it, he still couldn't make it feel real to him. How could she be dead? As cliché as it sounded, it seemed like only yesterday the two of them were on the rooftops of London, laughing at Stephanie's impressions of farm animals. But he knew it hadn't been yesterday.

They were so young then; just two naive kids achingly in love with one another. Stephanie had been Newkirk's first love, the first woman who truly captured his heart. And honestly, when they pulled apart in that garden and he watched her literally run from him, she carried pieces of his heart with her, never to be returned again. What Stephanie had said about him that day in the garden was true. He was impulsive. His youthful spirit was so foolish and he didn't really understand the gravity of what he was asking. But all he knew was that he loved her deeply, and the thought of losing her scorched his heart beyond recognition.

He had felt it twice, her slipping away from him. The night of his arrest, as the inspector pulled him away from her, and he felt her hands slowly slide out of his own…it was one of the most excruciating sensations of his life. Then, the scene was repeated that day in the garden. But the thing that made that time hurt particularly worse was the fact that Stephanie was pulling herself away. There was no third party involved. Stephanie was making a choice of her own, and the choice was to leave him, to separate herself from him forever.

And now, reading this letter, it was happening again. He was losing her again. But this time, the pain inflicted far surpassed either of the two previous pains. This time, it was for good. Stephanie was leaving him in the most ultimate sense, and he could do nothing to stop it. But what made this separation particularly cold was the distance of it all. Every previous time Stephanie had been torn from him, he had the joy of at least feeling her hands in his own, feeling the tips of her fingers on the tips of his until the very last second. But this time, he had no contact. He couldn't hold her the way he wanted. He couldn't kiss her the way he wanted. He couldn't even see her the way he wanted. All he could do was read… read and know that she was truly gone. And now, the last piece of her he had was this letter. It was his last connection to the woman he loved so deeply.

Looking closely now at the paper, Newkirk could see places were the ink had broken away and smeared. They were tear stains. Stephanie must have cried as she wrote this. As he stared at the letter once more, he barely noticed a tear of his own drop from his eye and land on the page. The pellet of water slid around slightly before finding a place to settle and seep in. The softly yellow page welcomed the tear willingly, eager to do its part in uniting the two lovers one last time; because now, in the substance of that page, a part of Peter and a part of Stephanie were together again…in the form of two shed tears.

"Oh, Steph," Peter whimpered, quietly succumbing to the soft sobs. His chest tightened and his shoulders quivered in subtle pulses. Leaning forward, Newkirk rested his elbow on his knee and clutched his forehead with his free hand. The only audible testaments to his crying were the periodic sniffs and shaky intakes of breath. There, secluded on that wooden bench on the outskirts of the camp, Peter Newkirk willingly let the tears flow as they had not in years.

A few minutes later, the corner of Newkirk's eye caught sight of a figure appearing from behind the barracks at his back. He glanced discreetly over and saw Andrew Carter cautiously approaching him. Newkirk swiftly brought his sleeve up to his eyes to wipe away the tears. Then he gave one swipe to his forehead in hopes of disguising his movements as simply wiping away sweat, though in the chilled German air, it was a poor cover story. He sniffed and tried to set his face into a cool expression. He stared at the letter, but didn't dare to read it again.

"There you are," Carter said. "The whole camp has been looking for you." The American sergeant stood in front of Newkirk, discreetly blocking the view of the guards in the nearby tower. "Kinch got a message from the underground. They've captured three of Little Miss Muffet's people. Colonel Hogan is calling a meeting."

Newkirk just nodded with a sniff. "Alright, Andrew. Thanks for tellin' me." He tried not to sound so glum, but he couldn't help the melancholy tone in his voice. He wasn't surprised when he felt Carter's hand on his shoulder. Newkirk looked up.

Carter appeared deeply concerned for his friend. He was always one of the more sensitively aware men in the group. "Everything okay, Newkirk?" he asked gently.

Newkirk breathed in, the air extending deep into his lungs. He folded the letter and placed it in his pocket, rising from the bench. He pasted a smile on his face and slapped Carter's arm reassuringly. "Everything's fine, Carter. Just needed some fresh air for a bit."

Carter hesitantly returned the smile, his eyes gravitating to the pocket that held the mysterious letter. If he wanted to press the issue further, he didn't; because if there was one thing Carter knew about Peter Newkirk, it was this: if Peter didn't want to discuss something, there was no way on earth you could get him to talk about it. So after a few moments of contemplation, Carter eventually nodded. "If you say so," he said at last. "Colonel says meeting's in two minutes in his quarters."

"Right-o, Andrew. Thanks again." Newkirk watched until Carter had rounded the corner, then his crooked smile fell from his face and was replaced by a sad scowl once more. Newkirk lifted his clenched fist and opened it slowly. In his hand, he held the necklace Stephanie had left him. He let it dangle from his fingers for a few moments, staring at it, trying to envision it around her delicate neck. He grasped the pendant of peridot and brought it to his lips for a quick kiss. Then he clenched the pendant in his hand and held the fist against his forehead.

"I love you, Steph," he whispered before placing the necklace around his neck and tucking it in the collar of his blue, RAF sweater. And it is there that the necklace remained. Newkirk never took it off for any reason, but always let it hang loosely around his neck…resting safely against his heart.

_Remember me when I am gone away,_

_Gone far away into the silent land;_

_When you can no more hold me by the hand,_

_Nor I half turn to go, yet turning stay._

_Remember me when no more day by day,_

_You tell me of our future that you planned:_

_Only remember me; you understand_

_It will be late to counsel then or pray._

_Yet if you should forget me for a while_

_And afterwards remember, do not grieve:_

_For if the darkness and corruption leave_

_A vestige of the thoughts that I once had,_

_Better by far you should forget and smile_

_Than that you should remember and be sad._

_Christina Rossetti, "Remember"_

THE END

* * *

**Author's Note:** There it is. After a year and four month's worth of writing, this story has finally managed to come to a close. I have to thank God for His help and support as I worked through the various plotlines of this story. And I also must thank all my wonderful readers who followed this story to the end. I know it dragged on a bit, but I am so grateful for those of you who remained interested in each update, and a big special thank you to those of you who felt inclined to review along the way. Your feedback was so fulfilling and it helped me to really stay on task and remain true to the characters. I have to thank my two proofreaders once again, Meagan and my dear cousin and friend, Sarah. They managed to save me from making countless embarrassing mistakes! And once again, thank you all for reading! This story has been so much fun to write, and I really feel like I know Newkirk as a character more intimately than I ever did before I wrote this. His character has always fascinated me, and I just wanted to explore some of his origin in this story. I still think he's a remarkable character and was loads of fun to write! So now it's over, and I must say…I am very pleased with the finished product. THANK YOU SO MUCH!

**Another Author's Note:** Interesting fact…once I had the idea for this story, the very first thing I wrote for it was Stephanie's letter, and I used it as a sort of outline for the story. But the second thing I wrote was actually one of the paragraphs in this closing chapter. It was the paragraph that began, "Looking closely now at the paper, Newkirk could see places were the ink had broken away and smeared." I was lying awake one night, and suddenly, this final scene of Newkirk reading the letter came to my mind. I grabbed a notepad (which I always keep next to my bed for this express purpose) and scribbled down that particular paragraph. I held on to that little piece of paper, knowing that I loved the paragraph and was determined to work it into the final scene. So, a year and some-odd time later, I was finally able to tuck that paragraph into a chapter nice and cozy like. It's an extremely fulfilling sensation.

**Yet Another Author's Note:** I also thought I would mention that Stephanie's name was something of a mistake. I have this thing, whenever I have a male character that isn't vital to the story, but deserves a name, I tend to call him Ralph (don't know why, but you can find several Ralph's floating around my stories). Likewise, up until now, whenever I needed to name a female character, if I could think of nothing else, I always just called her Stephanie. So when I wrote the letter from Newkirk's mystery romance, I signed it Stephanie as sort of a default name, with the intention of coming back and changing her name to something else I liked better at some later date. But then I sent the chapter off to my proof readers without having made the alteration, and I thought to myself, "Oh well, she can be called Stephanie." So that's how Steph got her name…only thing is, now I need to come up with another female stock character name since I can never think of any other character as "Stephanie" again! :o)

(I realize that's a lot of author's notes…but hey, it's my last chance, I might as well splurge, right?)

Thank you all, and God bless!

-Monker


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